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THE HOLY GRAVE. 



A 



RIBUTE OF RlOAVERS 



TO THE 



^EMOI^Y OR ^On^HEI^; 



OR, 



THOUGHTS ON MOTHER'S LOVE, MOTHER'S DEATH, 

MOTHER'S GRAVE, AND MOTHER'S 

HOME BEYOND. 



5 



S 



•^-^s»!^ IXJXJTJST:E^-5.1:EI^_ s^^Ssj-i- 



COMPILED 



'"^.^ ^^Vv 



BY JOHN MCCOY, M.D, 



NOV 15 1884 



CHICAGO AND KANSAS CITY: 

■yS'EVER & <grO., :^UBLISHERS. 
1884. 



3 




COPYRIGHT, 

1882, 

By JOHN McCOY, M.Do 



COPYRIGHT, 

1884, 
By WEVER & CO. 



PEEFACE. 

AFTEK mother's death, years ago, we searched dili- 
gently for something to read, some book on the 
subjects presented here. "We failed to find what w^ 
wished, and were thus led to gathering the " flowers ol 
thought " which compose this volume. 

We find that every man and woman whom the 
world has called great, and whose words have been saved 
for their wisdom and goodness, all cherished with the 
utmost tenderness their memories of Mother, of happy 
innocent childhood, and of home. Their testimony is 
always interesting, often very beautiful; and they 
speak the common sentiment of the human race. The 
love of home is universal. There is no place like home. 
The ties of home should be, and usually are, the 
strongest and most sacred of any on earth. True, in 
the busy street, young people go rushing on until the 
work of the day is over, but when night comes on, the 
heart is apt to wander back to — 

" The Old Folks at Home." 
The old house, the familiar walks about the place, the 



V 



^t PUEPAcM. 

garden paths, the deep, old-fashioned well, the barn 
and the gentle horse, the orchard, the family room and 
the aged ones — and especially the mother — are all called 
np, and the son or daughter is again with the loved 
ones at home. It is true that many a young man goes 
to the city and too soon forgets Jiis father and mother, 
for we own that this is sometimes done; but they do 
not forget him. The social circle, the ball-room, and 
the theatre occupy his time, and his evenings are spent 
away from his room. If this book falls into the hands 
of such a young man, and it will, we hope he may stop 
and reflect before he leaves his room at night, and 
write a letter home. 

WEITE THEM A LETTEE TO-NIGHT. 

" Don't go to the theatre, concert, or ball, 

But stay in your room to-night; 
Deny yourself to the friends that call. 

And a good, long letter write — 
Write to the sad old folks at home — 

Who sit when day is done. 
With folded hands and downcast eyes, 

And think of the absent one. 

"Don't selfishly scribble, 'Excuse my haste, 
I've scarcely time to write.' 



PUEFACE. vii 

Lest their di'ooping thoughts go wandering back 

To many a by-gone night — 
When they lost their needed sleep and rest, 

And every bre^-t J was a prayer, 
That God would leave tJieir delicate babe 

To their tender love and care. 

" Don't let them feel that youVe no more need 

Of their love and their counsel wise ; 
E or the heart grows strongly sensitive 

When age has dimmed the eyes — 
It might be well to let them believe 

You never forget them quite ; 
That you deem it a pleasure when far away^ 

Long letters home to write. 

" Don't think that the young and giddy friends 

Who make your pastime gay, 
Have half the anxious thought for you 

That the old folks have to-day. 
The duty of writing do not put ofl — 

Let sleep or pleasure wait — 
Lest the letter for which they have looked and longed^ 

Be a day- or an hour too late. 

" For the sad old folks at home, 
With locks fast turning white, 



viii pbefack 

Are longing to hear from tlie absent one — 

"Write them a letter to-night.'^ 

There are no ties so near and dear as the ties oi 

the family circle, the ties of home. More tears fall 

around the family hearth for the absent ones, the fallen 

ones, the lost ones, than any place else on earth. " Be 

it ever so humble, there is no place like home ; " and 

the reason is, we know we are loved and cared for at 

home. 

We attended a concert, some years since, given by 

one of our best living artists. The audience was de- 
lighted with the excellent music, and at the close of 
each piece most heartily applauded. The concert was 
well advanced when the artist came on the stage, and 
the piano commenced softly to count ofl the notes of — 

" Home, Sweet Home." 
In a moment the large house roared with applause, and 

the singer could scarcely proceed. But the song over, 
the eager audience called the singer back, and applause 
again shook the house as a welcome to — 
"The Old Folks at Home." 
Tears filled the eyes of that vast audience, and many a 

strong man wept like a child, as his thoughts went 
back " home again." 

Parents sometimes think their children do not care 



PREFACE ix 

for them, do riot love them, because they stay long 
from home, and write but few and short letters ; but 
such we do not believe to be the case. That young 
man who had not written home for months, sat by a 
beautiful young lady whom he had accompanied to 
the opera, and as " Home, Sweet Home ! " floated 
out over the audience, tears ran down his face. 
Thoughts of his home and the mother that he loved, 
came vividly before his mind, and awakened the deep- 
est emotions. 

It is a great mistake for a young man not to write 
often to his mother ; but it is seldom for want of love 
and respect for her that he neglects to do so. It is care- 
lessness. The young not only fail in showing consider- 
ate attention, but they too often do not fuUy appreciate 
the self-sacrificing love and benign presence of mother; 
like the air and the sunlight, she and her tender minis- 
tries are received and looked upon as a matter of 
course. And how often will the wealth of her affec- 
tions not be wholly known or felt till she is at rest in 
the home of the soul. Then they will regret that they 
did not write often, and that they staid so much from 
home. Their thoughtless negligence will cost them 
many a tear. ]^o person who is true to purer impulses 
will neglect this blest privilege and sacred duty. 



S PEEFAGE. 

because the time will come when the consciousness of 
having done our duty to those who bore ?.nd cherished 
us will be of more worth than fame or jcld. 

This book is sent forth in the nope that it may 
awaken on the part of the husband and the child a 
deeper appreciation of her who is the central figure of 
home ; that it may strengthen the family bonds, mak- 
ing them more beautiful and tender; tha^t it may 
encourage charity, and breathe hope for that future 
where language is music, thought is light, and love is 
law. It embodies those rare gems of prose and poetry 
in which are set the most inspiring thoughts of the 
true and good in all ages. To the mature in years 
these thoughts will come as sad, sweet melodies, touch- 
ing the soul with a gentle dew of melancholy, and 
bringing into view the reflected radiance of a golden 
dawning. To the young, they will brighten and 
deepen the pleasures and memories of home, awaken- 
ing a nobler life and a grander future. J. M. 



CONTKNTS. 

MOTHER'S LOVE. 

PAGE. 

A Mothek's Lament 27 

An Indian Mother's Loye 148 

A Mother's Heart 33 

A Mother's Gift — The Bible 34 

A Mother's Love 47 

A Mother's Lstfluencb 75 

A Mother's Thought over a Cradle 55 

A Sweet Picture 56 

A Mother's Heart 91 

A Mother's Love Ill 

A Mother's Farewell to her Daughter 74 

A Mother's Treasures 133 

A Mother's Work 142 

A Mother's Cares 152 

A Mother's Faith 192 

A Mother's Hope 194 

Birthday Verses 62 

Better in the Morning 186 

Children 73 

Experience 151 

Forget-me-not 191 

General Garfield's Mother 117 

Homeward Bound 66 

Home Again 70 

Home Influences 175 

Home of Our Childhood 216 

Her Mother's Ear 127 

Home ^ 193 

I'm Frightened in the Dark 84 

Is IT Thou, Mother? 115 

Kiss my Eyelids Down To-night. ; 116 

Light of Home ^ 69 

Little Boots 121 

xi 



xii ^ . (JONTMfB. 

Mother 19 

Matbknal Love 22 

Mothers 29 

Mother's Love 36 

Mother's Good-bye 38 

My Place in Childhood \ 40 

Mother 42 

My Mother's Yoice .* 44 

Mother's Fingers 45 

My Mother's Easy-chair 48 

Mother's Bible 50 

My Mother 59 

Mother's Boys 89 

Mother-love 101 

Maternal Love 105 

My Mother's Song , 107 

My Darling's Shoes 109 

Mother's Way *. 171 

Mother's Wee Man 167 

My Old Silver Thimble 125 

My Good Old-fashioned Mother 130 

Mother, the Star op My Home 204 

Memories of the Old Kitchen 206 

Motherhood 211 

On the Threshold 201 

Pass Under the Rod 81 

Papa's Letter 154 

Queen of Baby-land 94 

Queen of the World <. 205 

Rock Me to Sleep 78 

Rich, Though Poor 164 

The Old Homestead 21 

Tired Mothers 31 

The Family Bible 37 

Treasured Remembrances 52 

The Mother to her Child 57 

The Mother of Jesus 67 

To A Child Embracing its Mother. 71 

The Childless Mother 82 

The Brave at Home 86 

The Little Blue Shoes .\ ...,., 87 



CONTENTS xiii 

The Baby 102 

The Mother's First Grief 103 

The Mother Wants her Boy 123 

The Spells op Home 132 

The Mother 141 

The Mother's Day-dream 145 

To MY Mother . . . 158 

The Convict ■. 160 

The Three Little Chairs 168 

The Road is so Lonesome Between 179 

The Old Song 182 

The Sweetest Name 184 

Two Grayes 173 

The Mother's Hope 194 

The Old House in the Meadow 197 

Tsrai Old Homestead , 209 

Woman 54 

Willy's Graate 95 

Where's My Baby? 120 

We Shall Sleep, but Not Forever 186 

Woman's Influence. 187 

MOTHER'S DEATH. 

A Father to his Motherless Children 236 

A Mother's Death 272 

At Mother's Grave 294 

Baptism op an Inpant at its Mother's Funeral 247 

Dead Mother 267 

Death Scene 269 

Lips I have Kissed 270 

Letter from Philip Phillips 219 

Lines by Whittier ■ 271 

Mother is Dead 222 

Motherless 231 

My Mother's Prayer 233 

My Mother's Prayer — Music. 218 

My Mother's Bible 238 

My Mother 257 

My Trundle-bed 258 

Mother's Vacant Chair 262 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Mother's Love cannot Die '^^^ 

Mother LOVE Undying 378 

My Mother 291 

Memories of Mother 297 

My Mother's Wheel 298 

My Mother Knelt in Prayer 302 

One by One 220 

On the Receipt of Mother's Picture 241 

On a Lock of my Mother's Hair 252 

On the Death of a Mother 261 

On Dreaming of my Mother 279 

Recollections 280 

She is Dying 295 

The Old Arm-chair 248 

The Dying Mother 250 

To Mother 253 

The Mother Perishing in a Snow-storm 265 

The Death-bed 268 

The Dying Mother 274 

'T will all be Right in the Morning 275 

To MY Dead Mother 276 

The Death of Eve 284 

The Old Home without Mother 289 

The Pathos op Life 300 

MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

At Mother's Grave 317 

Alone 321 

At the Sepulcher. 334 

Death and Funeral 341 

Hallowed Ground 343 

Heart Throbs 344 

Low IN THE Ground 318 

My Mother 309 

My Mother's Grave 312 

Meditations 315 

Meditations at the Grave 326 

Mother ,. 331 

My Stricken Heart 342 

Nearer Thee 325 



CONTENTS. XV 

JSTo Home 354 

Over My Mother's Grave 314 

Requiescat in Pace 356 

She Always Made Home Happy 310 

She Sleeps 322 

Saintly Sympathy. 352 

The Holy Grave .305 

Tribute to a Mother , 308 

The Farewell to the Dead. 339 

Thou Angel Spirit 340 

The Repose op the Holy Dead 351 

The Yoice from Over the River 353 

Under the Violets 325 

Written at my Mother's Grave 319 

MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Changed Harmonies 390 

Crossing Over 392 

Hereafter 378 

Home is where Mother is 380 

Home and Heaven 391 

Home. 405 

Memories 389 

My Mother at the Gate 395 

My Mother 398 

Our Future Home 362 

The Angel op the House 361 

The Mountains of Life 377 

The Home Over There 379 

There is a World Above 384 

To MY Mother 385 

The Spirit Mother 403 



^2^ 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE. 

The Holy Grave, - Frontispiece. 

"Even among animals the heart oe a mother is a sub- 
lime THING."— Dttmos. -------20 

Treasured Eemembrances, ------ 52 

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove ! ) _ _ _ ^^03 
Holy as heaven a mother's tender love ! ) 

The Indian Mother, __----- 148 

"a kiss erom my mother made me a painter."— b671j. wcst. - 190 

They are gathering home from every land, one by one, 320 

Angel Visits, - - - -- - - - -250 

She sleeps, she sleeps, and never more, | _ o^^ 

Will her footsteps fall by the old home door, ) 

There's a land tar away, 'mid the stars, we are told, ) ^^^ 
Where they know not the sorrows of time. ) 

When over the river, the peaceful river, I . - 36O 

The Angel of Death shall carry me, ) 



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" I feel that in the heavens above, 

The ang-els, whispering to one another, 
Can know, among their burning terms of love, 
None so devotional as that of ' Mother.' " 

— Poe's " To my Mother.''^ 



Maternal love ! thou word that sums all bliss." 



—Pollok. 



" Mighty is the force of motherhood ! It transforms all things by its vital 
heart; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless defiance into 
tremulous submission ; it turns thoughtlessness into foresight, and yet stills 
all self-denial into calm content."— George Eliot. 



^E-t'i-sfm^ip-t-^^*- 







MOTHER! 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

Professor David Swing. 

AS ill the blade of grass and in the smallest herb, the 
first years of our globe gave signs of the coming 
tree ; as in the first drops of rain there was the promise 
of a coming ocean, as in the little garden of Eden there 
lay the prophecy of homes and cities and measureless 
fields, so the earliest instincts and afiections of animal 
life were advance heralds of a profound devotion destined 
to appear in the form of a mother's love. Each wild 
beast which to the death would defend its young, each 
bird that screamed and fluttered when an enemy ap- 
proached its nest said in distinct accents that Nature 
was preparing the way for a sublime sentiment— rthe at- 
tachment of a human mother to her children. It is 
proof of the defective civilization of the classics that 
the inother did not hold a high place in the esteem of 



20 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

the great men of tliat period. It was in a more ad" 
vanced stage of man that Cowper sang 

" Oh that tliose lips had language." 

Wliat tears ! what night- watching ! what sohcitude ! 
what self-denial ! what joy ! what pure affection are in- 
cluded in the word " Mother !" She literally dies for 
her children. To them she gives all her thoughts and 
powers of mind and body. It is not to he wondered at 
that when writers, sacred or profane, have desired to 
convey some adequate notion of the love of God for 
His universe they have always asked us to look upon a 
mother and her child. In that attachment we find all 
the hights and depths of sentiment, and when human 
thought has compared God to a loving mother it can 
say no more — its richest emblem is then exhausted. 
Sad thought that even our mother must leave us and 
be placed under the sod ! But dying, she is the best 
|)roof of immortality for her Iovg is too divine to be- 
come dust. 




Kven among animals, the heart of a mother is a sublime thing 

—Dumas. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 31 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

OWHETHEK the brooks be tinged with flowers, 
^ Or whether the dead leaves fall, 
And whether the air be full of songs, 

Or never a song at all, 
And whether the vines of the strawberries, 

Or frosts through the grasses run. 
And whether it rain or whether it shines, 

Is all to me as one. 
For bright as brightest sunshine 

The light of memory streams 
Eound the old-fashioned homestead, 

Where I dreamed mv earliest dreams. 



AKD say to mothers what a holy charge 
Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love 
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. 



BLISSFUL Mary Morning, mother mild, 
Mindful of naught but peace and of a child. 
— Sidney Lanier'^ s " Sunrise^ 



MATEEN^AL LOYE. 

IF there is one mortal feeling free from the impurities 
of earthly frailty that tells in its slightest breathings 
of its celestial origin, it is that of a mother's love — a 
mother's chaste, overwhelming and everlasting love of 
her children. 

The name of a mother is our childhood's talisman, 
our refuge and safeguard in all our mimic misery; 'tis 
the first half-formed word that falls from a babbhng 
tongue ; the first idea that dawns upon the mind ; the 
first, the fondest and the most lasting tie in which 
affection can bind the heart of man. 

It is not a feeling of yesterday or to-day ; it is from 

the beginning the same, and unchangeable ; it owes its 
being to this world, but is independent and self-existent, 

enduring while one pulse of fife animates the breast 
that fosters it ; and if there be anything of mortality 
which survives the grave, surely its best and noble pas- 
sion will never perish. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 23 

Oh ! it is a pure and holy emanation from Heaven's 
mercy, implanted in the breast of woman for the dear- 
est and wisest pm*poses, to be at once her truest and 
most sacred pleasure, and the safety and blessing of her 
offspring. 

'Tis not selfish passion, depending for its permanency 
on the reciprocation of its advantages ; but in its sin- 
cerity it casteth out itself, and when the weKare of 
that object is at stake, it putteth away fear, and know- 
eth not weariness. It is not excited by form or 
feature, but rather, by a happy perversion of percep- 
tion, imbues all things with imaginary beauty. It 
watches over our helpless infancy with the ceaseless 
benignity of a guardian angel, anticipates every child- 
ish wish, humors every childish fancy, soothes every 
transient sorrow, sings our sv/eet lullaby to rest, and 
cradles us on its warm and throbbing breast, and 
when pain and sickness prey upon the fragile form, 
what medicine is there like a mother's kiss, what 
healing pillow like a mother's bosom ? 

And when launched upon the wide ocean of a 
tempestuous world, what eye gazes on our adventurous 



34 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

voyage with half the eagerness of maternal fondness, 
amid the sad yet not unpleasing contest of hopes, and 
fears, and deep anxieties ? 

When the rugged path of life has been bravely, 
patiently and nobly trodden — when prosperity has 
smiled upon us — when virtue has upheld us amid the 
world's temptations — virtue wliich she herself first 
planted in us — and when fame has bound her laurels 
round us, is there a heart that throbs with a more 
lively or greater pleasure ? 

Yet it is not prosperity, with her smile and beauty, 
that tries the purity and fervor of a mother's love ; it 
is in the dark and dreary precincts of adversity, amid 
the cold frowns of an unfeeling world, in poverty and 
despair, in sickness and in sorrow, that it shines with a 
brightness beyond mortahty, and, stifling the secret of 
its own bosom, strives but to pour balm and consola- 
tion on the wounded sufferer ; and the cup of misery, 
filled to overflowing, serves but to bind them more 
firmly and dearly to each other, as the storms of winter 
bid the sheltering ivy tmne itself more closely round 
the withering oak. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 35 

Absence cannot chill a mother's love, nor can even 
vice itself destroy a mother's kindness. The lowest 
degradations of human frailty cannot wholly blot out 
the remembrance of the first fond yearnings of your 
affection, or the faint memorial of primeval innocence ; 
nay, it seems as if the very consciousness of the abject 
state of her erring child more fully developed the 
mighty force of that mysterious passion, which can 
forget and forgive all things ; and though the youth of 
her fairest hopes may be as one cast off from God and 
man, yet w^ill she not forsake him, but participate in all 
things save his wickedness ! 

I speak not of a mother's agonies when bending over 
the bed of death ! nor of Kachel weeping for her chil- 
dren, because they were not ! 

The love of a father may be as deep and sincere, yet 
it is calmer, and, perhaps, more calculating, and more 
fully directed in the great periods and ends of life ; it 
cannot descend to those minutiae of affection, those 
watchful cares for the minor comforts and gratifica- 
tions of existence, which a mother, from the finer sen- 
sibihties of her nature, can more readily appreciate. 



26 . MOTHERS LOVE. 

The pages of history abound with the records of 
maternal love in every age and clime, and every rank 
of life; but it is a lesson of never-ending presence, 
w^hich the heart can feel and acknowledge, and needs 
not example to teach how to venerate. 

Can there be a being so vile and odious, so dead to 
nature's impulse, who, in return for constant care, such 
unvarying kindness, can willingly or heedlessly wound 
the heart that cherished him, and forsake the lonely 
one who nursed and sheltered him; who can madly 
sever the sweetest bonds of human union, and bring 
down the gray hairs of his parents with sorrow to the 
grave ; who can leave them in their old age to solitude 
and poverty, while he wantons in the pride of unde- 
served prosperity ? 

If there be, why let him abjure the name of man 

and herd with the beasts that perish, or let him feel to 

distraction that worst of human miseries, 

'' How sharper than a serpent's toooth it is 
To have a thankless child." — Shdkesjpeare. 



A babe is a mother's 2CCiQ)ii(yc-—Beecher, 



MOTHERS LOVE. 27 

A MOTHER'S LAME:N'T. 

I LOVED tliee, daughter of my heart ! 
My child, I loved thee dearly I 
And though we only met to part ! — 

How sweetly ! how severely ! 
Kor life nor death can sever 
My soul from thine forever. 

Thy days, my little one, were few ; 

An angel's morning visit, 
That came and vanished with the dew, 

'Twas here — 'tis gone — where is it ? 
Yet didst thou leave behind thee 
A clue for love to find thee. 

Darling ! my last, my youngest love, 

The crown of every other ! 
Though thou art horn in heaven above, 

I am thine only mother ! 
ISTor will affection let me 
Believe thou canst forget me. 



^8 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



Then— thon in heaven and I on earth- 
May this our hope delight us, 

That thou wilt hail my second birth, 
When death shalt reunite us ; 

When worlds no more can sever, 

Mother and child forever. 

— Montgomery 




MOTHERS LOVE. 29 



MOTHERS. 

WHAT a power in the very word. Mother !, ISTo 
power can break the spell which a good mother 
throws around her child. He may wander away from 
home, and may even seem for a while to forget a mother's 
prayer and a mother's kiss ; hut somewhere and some- 
how that lovely face and fond caress will flash upon the 
mind. 

John Randolph said: "I should have been a 

French atheist if it had not been for one recollection, 

and that was that my departed mother used to take my 

little hand in hers, and cause me, on my knees, to say, 

' ' Our Father which art in heaven.' " 

E'o doubt hundreds and thousands of boys have 
been kept back from ruin by the hallowed influence • 
which .a fond and Godly mother had thrown around 
them in their early childhood. Well do we remember 
the solemn impression once made upon a boy's mind on 
accidentally coming near to where his mother was kneel- 
ing in secret prayer in the evening twilight. As he . 



30 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

stood as if chained to the spot, he heard the low, earn- 
est entreaties which that mother poured out before the 
mercy seat, that God would bless and save her children. 
If an angel had been whispering in his ear a message of 
mercy, sent direct from before the mediatorial throne, he 
would not have been more fully conscious of the fact 
that Christ was inviting him to his loving embrace. 

Richter is quoted as having said : " Unhappy the 
man whose mother does not make all mothers interest- 
ing." , If the mother be true and pure, and interesting 
and gentle, she will ever live in the memory of the child 
as a model of all that is to be desired in the female char- 
acter. And mothers should never forget that they wield 
a power which, by the blessing of God, can lead the 
child to a home in heaven. 




MOTHER'S LOVE. 31 



TIRED MOTHERS. 

— Mrs. Albert Smith 

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee — 
Your tired knee that has so much to bear — 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair ; 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight, 
You do not prize the blessings overmuch — 
You are most too tired to pray to-night. 



But it is blessedness ! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away ; 
And now it seems surprising strange to me 

That while I wore the badge of motherhood 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good, 



32 MOTHERS LOVE, 

And if some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss the elbow on your tired knee — 
This restless curly head from off your breast, 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
If from your own the dimple hand had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped — 

I could not blame you for your heart-ache then. 



I wonder that some mothers ever fret 

At their precious darlings clinging to their gown ; 
Or that their foot-prints when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown ; 
If I could find a little muddy boot. 

Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor— 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. 

And hear it patter in my house once more ; 



If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 



MOTHERS LOVE. 33 

There is no woman in God's world could say 
She was more blissfully content than I ; 

But ah! the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head ! 

My singing birdling from its nest has flown— 
My httle boy I used to kiss is — dead. 



A MOTHEE'S IIEAET. 



OIF there be in retrospection's chain 
One link that knits us with young dreams again, 
One thought so sweet, we scarcely dare to muse 
On all the horded rapture it reviews — 
Which seems each instant in its backward range. 
The heart to soften and its ties to chain, 
And every spring, untouched for years, to move — 
It is the memory of a mother's love. 



34 MOTHERS LOVE. 

A MOTHER'S GIFT— THE BIBLE. 

EEMEMBER, love, who gave thee this 
"When other days shall come, 
When she who had thine earliest kiss 

Sleeps in her narrow home ; 
Remember 'twas a mother gave 
This gift to one she'd die to save ! 

That mother sought a pledge of love, 

The holiest for her son, 
And from the gifts of God above, 

She chose a goodly one ; 
She chose for her beloved boy. 
The source of light and life and joy. 

She bade him keep the gift, that when 
The parting hour should come. 

They might have hope to meet again 
In an eternal home : 

She said his faith in this would be 

Sweet incense to her memory. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 35 

And should the scofter, in his pride, 

Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 
And bid him cast the pledge aside. 

That he from youth had borne, 
She bade him pause and ask his breast 
If she, or he, had loved him best. 

A parent's blessing on her son 

Goes with this holy thing ; 
The love that would retain the one, 

Must to the other cling. 
Eemember 'tis no idle toy : 
A mother's gift ! remember boy ! 




MOTHERS LOVE. 



MOTHER'S LOYE. 

John S. Held in Guha 

I Y her my lisping tongue in prayer 
Was taught to bless the God of light. 
Her kindness soothed my childish care, 

And watched my slumbers during night. 
Poor is the immortal sculptor's art, 

The painter's pencil, poet's song, 
Compared to her who moulds the heart 

With plastic hand while pure and young. 
A sister's love is warm and kind, 
A brother's strong as hand of time ; 
And sweet the love of kindred mind, 
But mother, these are not like thine. 

Dear mother from thy home above, 
Still come and bless me with thy love. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 37 



THE FAMILY BIBLE, 

WHAT household thoughts around thee as their 
shrine, 
OHng reverently ! of anxious looks heguiled, 

My mother's eyes upon thy page divine, 
Each day were bent ; — her accents gravely mild, 
Breathed out thy lore, whilst I, a dreaming child, 

Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, 

Some fresh discovered nook for woodland play. 
Some secret nest ; — yet would the solemn word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Fall on my waken' d spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which in darker years, 
O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 

— Mrs. Hemans. 



38 MOTHER'S LO VE. 

MOTHEE'S GOOD-BY. 

SIT down by the side of your mother, my boy, 
You have only a moment I know ; 
But you will stay 'till I give you my parting advice, 
'Tia all that I have to bestow. 

You leave us to seek for employment, my boy. 

By the world you have yet to be tried ; 
But in all the temptations and struggles you meet, 

May your heart in your Savior confide. 

Hold fast to the right, hold fast to the right, 

Wherever your footsteps may roam, 
Oh, forsake not the way of salvation,, my boy, 

That you learned from your mother at home. 

You'll find in your satchel a Bible, my boy, 

'Tis a book of all others the best ; 
It will teach you to live, and help you to die, 

And lead to the gates of the blest. 



MO THER'S LOVE. 39 

I gave you to God, in your cradle, my boy, 
I have taught you the best that I know ; 

And as long as his mercy permits me to live, 
I shall never cease praying for you. 

Your father is coming to bid you good-by, 

Oh, how lonely and sad we shall be ; 
But when from the scenes of your childhood and youth, 

You'll think of your father and me. 

I want you to feel every word I have said, 
For it comes from the depths of my love ; 

And, my boy, if we never behold you on earth, 
"Will you promise to meet us above \ 




40 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MY PLACE m CHILDHOOD, 

S. Lover. 

THEEE was a place in cliildhood, that I remember 
well, 
And there a voice of sweetest tone, bright fairy tales 

did tell. 
And gentle words, and fond embrace, were given with 

joy to me, 
"When I was in that happy place npon my mother's 

knee. 



When fairy tales were ended, " good-night," she softly 

said. 
And kissed and laid me down to sleep upon my tiny bed. 
And holy word^ she taught me there ; methinks I yet 

can see 
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee. 

In tlie sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime. 
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of every timo^ 



MOTHERS LOVE. 41 

When doubt and danger weigh me down, then plead- 
ing all for me, 

It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my 
mother's knee. 



OGOD, since ever I could speak, 
Mj voice had fallen on faithful ears, 
'Twas " Mother " in my triumph hour. 
And " Mother " in my time of tears. 

— Laura C. Redden^ in " Dear Mother P 



rpHE mother, in her oiEce, holds the key 

-*- Of the soul ; and she it is who stamps the coin 

Of character, and makes the being who would be a 

savage. 
But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. — Old Play. 



"I TY CHILD is lying on my knees; 
.JX Tj^e signs of heaven she reads: 
My face is all the heaven she sees. 

Is all the heaven she needs. — Geo. Macdonald. 



42 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHER 

OF all the words cherished in the recollection of 
man — of all the names held sacred in his memory, 
that of mother falls upon his heart with the most sublime 
influence. How sweet the recollection in after years of 
a mother's tender training ; and who is there that finds 
no relief in recurring to the scenes of his infancy and 
youth, gilded with the recollection of a mother's tender- 
ness. And how many have nobly owned that to the 
salutary influence, then exerted, they must ascribe their 
future success, their avoidance of evil, when no eyes 
were upon them, but when rested on the heart, the warn- 
ings, the prayers, and tears of a mother. 

The father may be tenderly loved, and all the affec- 
tions of the heart may be drawn out to him who blessed 
us before reason dawned upon our minds, or our infant 
lips could speak his name ; but still a mother's prayers 
and a mother's entreaties will survive the discordant ele- 
ments of the world, after every other vestige of better 
days shall have been obliterated from the mind. Others 



MOTHERS LOVE. 43 

may love us fondly, but never again while time i a ours 
shall any one's love be to us as fond, as tender, as de- 
voted, as was that of our dear old trembling mother. 
Through helpless infancy her throbbing heart was our 
safe protection and support, and through the ills and 
maladies of childhood her gentle hand ministered and 
soothed as none other could. I feel animated to strug- 
gle more manfully in the great battle of life, when I re- 
member my mother's holy counsel to me in childhood's 
early dawn, and in the slippery paths of youth. Ah ! 
those words of tenderness — those pious precepts soften- 
ed by a "mother's love" — too much unheeded then, 
and disregarded — live now, brightened in memory, and 
constitute my sweetest recollections. Her prayers for 
me in childhood — her sparkling crystal tears — naade an 
impression on my young mind, as durable as time, and 
even now they bid me walk in the paths of rectitude. 
And shall I be faithless to my mother? Heaven 

FORBID ! 



44 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MY MOTHER'S VOICE. 




N. P. Willis. 

Y mother's voice, liow often creeps 
Its cadence o'er my lonely hours, 
Like healing sent on wings of sleep, 

Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
I can't forget her melting prayer, 

Even while my pulses madly fly ; 
And in the still, unhroken air, 

Her gentle tones come stealing by ; 
And years, and sin, and manhood flee. 

And leave me at my mother's knee. 




MOTHER'S LOVE. 45 



MOTHER'S rmGEES. 



Jessie M. Saxbyi 

MOTHER'S useful fingers, sewing dainty seams, 
While her faith is brooding over hopeful dreams, 
While her heart is happy in a dawning love, 
Deftly move her fingers for the coming dove. 

Mother's feeble fingers, fluttering slow and mild, 
O'er the tiny features of her welcome child. 
Stroking cherub dimples, smoothing rufiled hair, 
Tending baby treasures with unrivaled care. 

Mother's busy fingers working late and long. 
Small and soft and tender, only through love strong, 
SAviftly working wonders, never idly still, . 
Children's bread and raiment, rousing parent's skill. 

Mother's loving fingers raising up the weak, 
Passing cold and gentle, o'er the fevered cheek, 
Soothing sick and weary, like a touch of dew, 
Lifting sinking spirits to their life anew. 



46 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Mother's pious fingers, turning o'er and o'er 
All the glowing pages of our sacred lore ! 
Falling on the young brows with a blessing fraught, 
Mute and earnest, when her God was sought. 

Mother's faithful fingers, stretching through the cloud, 
Beckoning back the wanderer and the sinful bow'd. 
Clasping hands that virtue scarce will touch agani, 
Clinging to the fallen, heedless of each stain. 

Mother's tender fingers guiding failing eyes, 
Holding all the closer as the darling dies ; 
Lingering o'er each duty to the passive form, 
Shrouding silent features from the sun and storm. 

Mother's lifeless fingers folded on her breast, 
All their duty ended, laid at last to rest ; 
Koble work accomplished, quiet fingers cold, ^ 
Laid in peaceful silence 'mid the coflin mould. 

Mother's angel fingers working golden strings 
Where, a holy harper, sweet her spirit sings ; 
Pointing out the sky-way, leading those who come, 
Dear immortal fingers, in the Father's home. 



MOTREES LO VE. 47 



A MOTHER'S LOYE. 

A MOTHER'S love ! oh, soft and low 
As the tremulous notes of the lone dove's call. 
Or the murn^ur of waters that gently flow, 
On the weary heart those accents fall ! 

A mother's love ! the sacred thought 

Unseals the hidden fount of tears, 
As if the frozen waters caught 

The purple light of earlier years. 

A mother's love ! oh, 'tis the dew 

Which nourished life's drooping flowers, 

And fitteth them to bloom anew 

'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 



48 MOTHERS LOVE. 

MY MOTHEE'S EASY CHAIR. 

^ Sidney Dyer. 

jIIE days of my youtli have all silently sped, 
And my locks are now grown thin and gray, 
My hopes like a dream in the morning have fled, 

And nothing remains but decay. 
Yet I seem but a child as I was long ago, 

When I stood by the form of my sire, 
And my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

Oh, she was my guardian and guide all the day, 

And the angel who watched round my bed ; 
Her voice in a murniur of prayer died away. 

For blessings to rest on my head. 
Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could know, 

Though trained in its own peerless choir. 
Could sing like my mother who rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

How holy the place as we gathered at night 
Eound the altar where peace ever dwelt, ^ 



MOTHERS LOVE. 49 

To join in an anthem of praise, and unite 

In thanks which our hearts truly felt. 
In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow, 

Sat the venerable form of our sire. 
While my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

The cottage is gone which my infancy knew. 

And the place is despoiled of its charms, 
My friends are all gathered beneath the old yew, 

And slumber in death's folded arms ; 
But often with rapture my bosom doth glow 

As I think of my home and my sire, 
And the dearest of mothers who sang long ago 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 




50 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHEE'S BIBLE. 

George P. Mortis 

THIS book is all that's left me now ! 
Tears will unbidden start, — 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past, 
Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hand this Bible clasped ! 
She, dying, gave it me. 



Ah ! wdl do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear, 
Who round the hearth-stone used to close 

After the evening prayer. 
And speak of what those pages said, 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the sainted dead, 

Here are they living still ! 



MOTHERS LOVE. 51 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters dear ; 
How cahii was my poor mother's look, 

'Who learned God's word to hear. 
Iler angel face, I see it yet ! 

What thronging memories come ; 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried ; 
When all were false I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasure give 

That could this volume buy ; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die. 



52 MOTHERS LOVE. 

TEEASUEED EEMEMBEANCES. 

IHAYE very mucli of treasures 
That my heart has hid away ; 
There's a little curl that's brighter 

Than the sunshine of the day ; 
And a little shoe that's faded, 

Is among the treasures there — 
And I listen when I see it. 

For a footstep on the stair, 
For a patter, patter, patter. 

Of a footstep on the stair. 

Now those little feet are silent, 

And the face is hidden low 
Underneath the meadow grasses. 

And the daisies' fragrant snow ; 
And I miss them in the morning, 

Pattering feet, and face so fair — 
But I listen most at bed-time. 

For the footstep on the stair, 
For a patter, patter, patter. 

Of a footstep on the stair. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 



53 




Then she'd come and kneel beside me, 

In her little gown of white, 
And she'd say her short prayer over, 

And would kiss me sweet good-night. 
And I listen in the twilight, 

'Though I know she is not there, 
But I cannot still my yearning. 

For the footstep on the stair, 
For the patter, patter, patter. 

Of the footstep on the stair. 



54 MOTHER S LOVE. 

WOMAK 

HOW continually, in retirement and in the world, is 
the lesson of submission forced upon woman. To 
suffer, and be silent under sufferings, seems the greatest 
command she has to obey; while man is allowed to 
wrestle with calamity, and to conquer or die in the 
struggle. 

The drying a single tear hath more 

Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 



I 



F there be aught surpassing human deed or word or 
thought, it is a mother's love. 

—Marchioness de Spadara^ 



THE loss of a mother is always felt; even though her 
health may incapacitate her from taking any active 
part in the care of her family, still she is a sweet rally- 
ing point, around which affection and obedience, and a 
thousand tender endeavors to |)lease, concentrate ; and 
dreary is the blank when such a point is withdrawn I 



MOTHERS LOVE. 55 



A MOTHEE'S THOUGHT OYER A CRADLE. 

—N. P. Willis. 

ISADDEIT when thou smilest to my smile, 
Child of my love ! I tremble to beheve 

That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 

The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 

A heart that, from, its struggle with the world, 

Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 

And, careless of the staining dust it brings. 

Asks for his idol ! Strange that flowers of earth 

Are visited by every air that stirs. 

And drink in sweetness only, while the child 

That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 

May take a blemish from the breath of love, 

And bear the blight forever. 

I have wept 
With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
My life is bound up in her. But, O God ! 
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 



66 MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 

Bears its sweet burthen ; and if Thou hast given 
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, 
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, 
Tahe Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light — 
Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — 
But, by the cord thus wrung, and by the light 
Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
And link us close, O God, when near to heaven ! 



A SWEET PICTUEE. 



AN ingenious writer says : " If a painter wished to 
draw the finest object in the world, it would be 
the picture of a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity 
of her mind, and a countenance beaming with benevo- 
lence; one hand lulling to rest on her arm a lovely 
infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page 
to another sweet babe, who stands at her knee listening 
to the words of truth and wisdom from its incompara- 
ble mother." 



MOTHER'S LOVE: 57 



THE MOTHEE TO HEE CHILD. 

—N. P. Willis. 

THEY tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, 

Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, 

Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — 

That through these fringed lids we see the soul 

Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; 

And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, 

"Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see 

Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! 

And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 

"Why away, wandering from a home of bhss. 

To find thy way through darkness home again ? 

Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 

Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert. 

The cherub and the angel thou may est be, 

A life's probation in this sadder world ? 

Art thou with memory of two things only, 

Music and light, left upon earth astray, 



58 MOTHERS LOVE, 

And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
Look'd for with fear and trembhng ? 

God ! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! 
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 
Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! 
And let the light and music, which the world 
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
To lead her steps to Thee ! 



WHAT are Eaphael's Madonnas but the shadow of 
a mother's love fixed in permanent outline for- 
ever! — Higginson. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 59* 



MY MOTHER 

—Fields. 

WHEEE dwells the being in whose bosom affection's 
tender call meets with a responsive throb of feel- 
ing, that does not cherish with pleasure the remem- 
brance of a mother's love, and the assiduous attention 
of a mother's devotedness ? When the first half -meant 
glistening of the infant eye bespoke " the first dawn of 
reason," when the puny arms first clasped the maternal 
neck, and the sweet babe seemed "a pearl of great 
price " on the bosom, who, with soul-exhausting fervor, 
pressed the dear treasure to its faithful home? And 
when the chuckhng laugh, and the little, restless, elastic 
limbs of her dearest, in its playful humor, won her 
smile, who caressed the sportive child, and gave back 
kiss for kiss? It was the mother. If some gloomy 
foreboding, some cloud of care, come over the sunhght 
of her hope, teUing her that the bright being next her 
heart would smile no more, the tears that bathed the 
polished brow beneath her look of love were a baptism 
that would gain it a heaven. 



60 MOTHERS LOVE. 

When the tottering limbs essayed to move in the 
harmony of nature, the goal of the infant trial was 
the parent knee, that reward the parent embrace. The 
first faint lisp of language, that seemed to be taught 
by an angel, comes on the mother's ear like undefined 
music ; and the first trial is to sound a mother's name. 
Oh, thought-enkindling word! connected with every 
remembered pang of sorrow, and every association of 
former happiness. 

The maternal knees are the first altar of devotion ; 
and the clustering head of childhood, bowed in its 
mother's lap, pours out the sweet and acceptable prayer 
of innocence. The kind hand that falls with blessings 
on the youthful brow smoothes the couch of sleep, 
while the eternal principle of a mother's love, like a 
guardian spirit, ever watches over its repose. 

The heyday of youth has passed ; and with it have 
been separated the closer ties that bound me to my 
mother. Yet the chain of affection has been but 
loosened ; not a link of it has been broken. When the 
wild war of passion rages, the memory of her love 
comes like magic over my soul, and, like "oil on the 



MOTHERS LOVE. 61 

troubled waters," calms it to a peaceful and quiet rest. 
Oh, my mother! may he who has felt love like 

thine never know love from any, if he once forgets 

thee. And may the rich blessings of heaven descend 

on thee, as thou hast often prayed for them to come 

upon thy child ! 



"VTOT she with trait'rous kiss her Savior stung ; 
^' ]^ot she denied him with unholy tongue : 
She, when apostles shrank, could danger brave, — 
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. 



THE mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, 
blunting all other sensibilities; it is an expansion 
of the animal existence; it enlarges the imagined 
range for self to move in; but in after years it can 
only continue to be joy on the same terms as other 
long-lived love; that is, by much suppression of self, 
and power of living in the experience of another. — 
George Eliot, 



62 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



BIETH-DAY YEKSES. 

*' The heart that we have first laid near is the only one that can- 
not forget that it has loved us." — Phillip Slingsby. 

MY birth-day ! — O beloved mother ! 
My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 

I did not think to count another 

Before I wept upon thy knees — 

Before this scroll of absent years 

Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 

My own I do not care to check. 

I weep — albeit here alone — 
As if I hung upon thy neck, 

As if thy lips were on my own, 
As if this full, sad heart of mine. 
Were beating closely upon thine. 

Four weary years ! How looks she now ? 

What light is in those tender eyes ? 
What trace of time has touched the brow 



MOTHERS LOVE. 63 

Whose look is borrowed of the skies 
That listen to her nightly prayer? 
How is she changed since he was there ? 

Who sleeps upon her heart alway — 
Whose name upon her hps is worn — 

For whom the night seems made to pray — 
lor whom she wakes to pray at morn— 

Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 

Who weeps these tears to think of herf 

" I know not if my mother's eyes 

Would find me changed in slighter things ; 
I've wander'd beneath many skies. 

And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
And many leaves once fair and gay, 

From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — 
But, as these looser leaves depart. 

The lessen'd flower gets near the core, 
And, when deserted quite, the heart 

Takes closer what was dear of yore — 
And yearns to those who loved it first- - 
The sunshine and the dew by which its bud Avas nursed. 



64 MOTHERS LOVE. 

Dear Mother 1 Dost thou love me yet ? 

Am I remember'd in thy home ? 
When those I love for joy are met, 

Does some one vt^ish that I would come ? 
Thou dost — I am beloved of these ! 

But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er 
ISTight after night the Pleiades 

And finds the stars he found before — 
As turns the maiden oft her token — 

As counts the miser aye his gold — 
So, till life's silver cord is broken. 

Would I of thy fond love be told 
My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — 
Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet ? 

Oh ! when the hour to meet again 

Creeps on — and speeding o'er the sea, 
My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain. 

And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
When land is hail'd, and, from the shore. 

Comes off the blessed breath of home. 
With fragrance from my mother's door 

Of flowers forgotten when I am come — 



MOTHERS LOVE. 65 

"When port is gain'd, and slowly now 

The old familiar paths are pass'd, 
And, entering — ^unconscious — how — 

I gaze upon thy face at last, 
And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
And feel thy tears upon my cheek — 

Oh ! if my heart break not with joy. 
The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 

And I shall grow once more a boy : 
And, mother ! 'twill be like a dream 

That we were parted thus for years — 
And once that we have dried our tears. 

How will the days seem long and bright — 
To meet thee always with the morn, 

And hear thy blessings every night — 
Thy " dearest," thy " first-born ! " — 
And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn ! 



rTHE future destiny of the child is always the work 
-^ of the mother. — N'ajyoleon. 



66 MOTHEWS LOVE. 



HOMEWAED BOUND. 

(fkom eueope.) 



■Willis. 



DEAE mother! in thy prayer to-night, 
There come new words and warmer tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light — 
Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 

Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! 

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 

He comes to shore who sails with me ! 
The spider knows the roof unriven, 

"While swings his web, though lightning blaze, 
And by a thread still fast on heaven 

I know my mother lives and prays! 

Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — 
"When first our tears will let us see — 

"When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 67 

'Twill be a pastime little sad 

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
Upon each other's forms have had — 

For all may flee, so love still lingers ! 

Bright flag, at yonder tapering mast ! 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! 
Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars ! 



THE MOTHEK OF JESUS. 

O, not alone 

I IS" HIS pure teachings and in Calvary's woe, 
Lay the blest errand of the Savior here. 
His walk through life's dark pathway blessed yet more. 
Distant from God so infinitely far 
Was human weakness, till He came to bear, 
With us, our weaknesses awhile, that fear 
Had heard Jehovah's voice in thunder only, 
And worshiped trembling. Heaven is nearer now. 



68 MOTHERS LOVE, 

At God's right hand sits One who was a child, 
Born as the humblest, and who here abode 
Till of our sorrows he had suffered all. 
They who now weep, remember that he wept. 
The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel 
That Jesus, too, drank of these cups of woe. 
And oh, if of our joys he tasted less — 
If all but one passed from his lips away — 
That one — a mother's love — by his partaking 
Is hke a thread of heaven spun through our Hfe, 
And we, in the untiring watch, the tears, 
The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, 
May feel a heavenly closeness unto God. 



GOD sends us children for another purpose than 
merely to keep up the race : to enlarge our hearts ; 
to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies 
and affections ; to give our souls higher aims, and to 
caU out all our faculties to extend enterprise and exer- 
tion; to bring round our firesides bright faces, and 
happy smiles, and loving, tender'hearts. — Ma/ry Howitt. 



MOTMEICS LOVE. 69 



LIGHT OF HOME. 

r-Sarah JosepTui Hale. 

MY SO!N", thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 

And thou must go ; but never, when there, 

Forget the light of home ! 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 

It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twiU deepen the night 

When treading thy lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame 

And pure as a vestal fire, — 
'TwiU burn, 'twill burn forever the same, 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed. 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 

When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
Then look to the light of home ! 



70 MOTHER 8 ZOVK 



HOME AGAIK 

— Abbie G. McKeever. 

HOME again ; mother, your boy will remain 
For a time, at least, in tlie old home again. 
How good to see you in your cornered nook 
"With knitting, or sewing, or paper, or book ; 
The same sweet mother my boyhood knew, 
The faithful, the patient, the tender, and true. 

Tou have httle changed ; ah, well, maybe 
A few gray hairs in the brown I see ; 
A mark or two, under smihng eyes, 
So lovingly bent in your glad surprise ; 
'Tis I who have changed; ah, mother mine, 
From a teasing lad to manhood's prime. 

Ko longer I climb on your knee at night 
'• For a story told in the soft firehght ; 
1^0 broken slate, or book all torn. 
Do I bring to you with its edges worn ; 
But J'll come to you with my graver cares; 
You'll help me bear them with tender prayers. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 71 

I'll come again, as of old, and you 
Will help the man to be brave and true ; 
For the man's the boy, only older grown, 
And the world has many a stumbling-stone. 
Ah, mother mine, there is always rest 
When I find you here in the old home nest. 



TO A CHILD EMBEACnSTG HIS MOTHEE. 

— Thomas Hood. 

LOYE thy mother, httle one. 
Kiss and clasp her neck again ; 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one. 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 
And mirror back her love for thee ; 

Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet them where they cannot see. 

Gaze upon her living eyes. 



72 MOTSEBS LOVK 

Press her lips, the while they glow 
With love that they have often told ; 

Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 

Press her lips, the while they glow I 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
- Although it be not silver gray. 
Too early, death, led on by care. 

May snatch, save one dark lock, away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn. 

That heaven may long the stroke defer ; 

For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 

Pray for her at eve and morn. 



rTHE future of society is in the hands of the mothers. 
■^ If the world was lost through woman, she alone 
can save it. — De Beaufort, 



MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 1^ 



CHILDEEF. 

GHILDEEN are what mothers are. 
No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee. 
Who wishes all the while to trace 
The mother in his future face ; 

But 'tis to her alone uprise 

His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 

Open with joy and not surprise. 



STOEIES first heard at a mother's knee are never 
wholly forgotten — a little spring that never quite 
dries up in our journey through scorching years. 

— Ruffini, 



74 MOTHERS LOVE, 



A MOTHEE'S FAEEWELL TO HEE DAUGHTEB 



M 



Y fairest cliild, I have no song to give you ; 
]^o lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
Yet ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
Do noble things, not dream them all day long ; 
And so make life, death and the vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 



rPHE efforts which a mother makes for the improve- 
■*• ment of her child in knowledge and virtue are 
necessarily retired and unobtrusive. The world knows 
not of them ; and hence the world has been slow to 
perceive how powerful and extensive is this secret and 
silent influence. — J. S. C. Ahhott 



G 



OD pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense 
into everlasting forgetfulness. — Beecher. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. '^^ 



A MOTHEE'S mFLUEKCE. 

John B. Gough. 

IEIROW myself the results of my own Sabbath- 
school instruction, and I remember the teachings 
of a praying mother. That mother taught me to pray 
in early life — gave me the habit of praying ; the teacher 
at the Sabbath-school strengthened it ; they stored my 
mind with passages of Scripture, and these things, I tell 
you, young man, we do not entirely forget. They may 
be buried, they may be laid away for a time in some ob- 
scuiie corner of the heart, but by and by circumstances 
will show that we know much more than we thought. 
After that mother's death I went out into the world, ex- 
posed to its manifold temptations. I fell ; I acquired 
bad habits. For seven years of my life I wandered 
over God's beautiful earth like an unblessed spirit wan- 
dering over a barren desert, digging deep wells to quench 
my thirst and bringing up the dry hot sand. 

Bound with the fetters of evil habits, habits like an 
iron net encircling me in its folds — fascinated with my 
bondage, and yet with a desire, how fervent ! to stand 



76 MOTHEM'S LOVR 

where I once hoped to stand. " Ah," said one, "what 
is the effect of a mother's teaching and a mother's 
prayers, of the Sunday-school, and of early good habits ? " 
O ! I stood there, I remember it well, feeling my 
own weakness, and thinking that the way of the trans- 
gressor is hard ; knowing that the wages of sin is death ; 
feeling in the great deep of my heart all the bitterness 
that arises from the consciousness of powers wasted and 
opportunities lost ; conscious that I had been chasing 
mere bubbles and gained nothing. There I stood. 
That mother had passed to heaven, but her words came 
back to my mind. I remember, when one night in 
our garret the candle was failing, that she said : " John, 
I am growing blind, and I don't mind it much. But 
you are young, it is hard for you. But never mind, 
John, where I am going there is no night. There is no 
need of any candle there, the Savior is the light thereof." 
She has changed the dark gloomy garret to bask in the 
sunshine of her Savior's smiles. But her influence was 
not lost. As I stood feeling my own weakness, know- 
ing that I could not resist temptation, it seemed as if 
the very light she left as she passed, had spanned the 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 77 

dark gap of seven years of sin and dissipation and struck 
the heart and opened it. I felt utterly my own weak- 
ness, and the passages of Scripture that were stored 
away in my mind came as if whispered again into my 
ear by the loving lips of that mother. Made strong by 
the recollection of her teaching and her prayers, 1 fled 
from the ways that lead down to death and was saved, 
saved through the influence of a mother's love. 




78 MOTHEES LO VE, 



EOCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Mrs. EHsabeth Ahers Allen. 

BACKWAED, turn backward, Time ! in your 
flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your arms as of yore, 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep 1 

Backward, fly backward, O swift tide of years 1 
I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ! 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away. 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
Eock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



MOTHERS LOVE. 79 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded, our faces between ! 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again ! 
Come from the silence so long and so deep, — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart in days that are flown, 

!N"o love like mother love ever has shone, 

^o other worship abides and endures 

Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; 

[N'one like a mother can charm away pain 

From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brain ; 

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night. 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering li^ht^ 



80 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

For oil ! wifh its sunny-edged shadows once more, 
Happy will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song. 
Sing then again, — to my soul it shall seem 
"Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; 
Clasped to your arms in a loving embrace. 
With your soft light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 




MOTHERS LOVE, 81 

PASS UKDER THE ROD. 

I SAW a young mother in tenderness bend 
O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
And she kissed the soft lips as she murmured his name, 

While the dreamer lay silent in joy. 
Oh, sweet is the rose-bud encircled with dew. 

When its fragrance is flung on the air. 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd, 

As he lay in his innocence there. 
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form, 

Pale as marble, and silent, and cold. 
But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow was told ! 
But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart 

And taken her treasure away, 
To allure her to heaven he has placed it on-high, 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God 
" I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod ! " 



83 . MOTHEES LOVE, 

THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. 

Mary Clemmer Ames 

I LAY my tasks down one by one, 
I sit in tlie silence of twilight grace ; 
Out in the shadow soft and drear 
Steals like a star my baby's face. 

Mockingly cold are the world's poor joys, 
How poor to me all its pomp and pride ; 

In my lap lie the baby's idle toys, 
In this very room the baby died. 

I will shut these broken toys away. 

Under the lid where they mutely bide ; 
I will smile in the face of noisy day, 

Just as if baby had never died. 

I will take up my work once more, 
As if I had never laid it down ; 

"Who will dream that I ever wore 
Motherhood's fine and holy crown ? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 83 

Who will dream my life ever bore 
Fruit the sweeter in grief and pain ? 

The flitting smile that the baby wore 
Outrayed the light of the loftiest brain. 

I'll meet the man in the world's rude din 
Wlio hath outlived his mother's kiss, 

Who hath forsaken her love for sin^ 
I will be spared her pain in this. 

Man's way is hard and sin-beset ; 

Many must fall, but few can win — 
Thanks, dear Shepherd ! my lamb is safe, 

Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin. 

E'evertheless the way is long. 

And tears leap up in the light of the sun ; 
I'd give my world for a cradle song. 

And a kiss from baby — only one. 



84 MOTHEES LOV-E. 

I'M FRIGHTENED DT THE DAKK. 

WE sat within a lighted room, 
My baby-boy and I ; 
Eut empty were my loving arms, 

Where he was wont to lie 
And look up fondly in my face, 

Eor pretty toys were near ; 
And though I called him lovingly, 
The darhng would not hear. 

I yearned to clasp him to my heart, 

But Avooed him all in vam, 
To leave his play and come to me 

Would give him too much pain. 
I took the candle in my hand, 

And, with a breath of air. 
Extinguished its soft, cheerful light^ 

And made all darkness there. 

And soon I heard a sweet-toned voice 
To which I love to hark, 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 85 

Cry, " Mother, take me in your arms f 

I'm frightened in the dark ;'^ 
And then I caught the sweet hoy up 

And felt him clasp me tight, 
And knew that I was needed then, 

Because there was no light. 

And as my darling grew in years, 

The brightness of my joy 
Made me adore our Father less 

Than I adored my hoy. 
He called me in a tender tone — 

His voice is always mild — 
But I refused to go to him, 

And played on with my child. 

And then he blew my candle out 

By stopping Harry's breath ; 
And in the anguish of that grief 

And darkness of that death, 
I cried out in a trembling voice 



86 MOTHERS LOVE, 

And witli an aching brow: 
" I'm coming to tliee, O my God I 
For my heart needs thee now 1 " 

— By the author of Liiile Folks 



THE BEAYE AT HOME. 

Thomas B, Bead. 

THE mother who conceals her grief 
When to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
"With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her,— 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
Keceived on freedom's field of honor. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 87 



THE LITTLE BLUE SHOES. 

Wm. C. Bennett 

OH those little, those little blue shoes ! 
Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes ! 



For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eye meet, 
That, by God's good will. 
Years since grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 



And oh, since that baby slept. 
So hushed, how the mother has kept, 
"With a tearful pleasure. 
That dear little treasure. 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 



MOTHER iS LOVK 

For they mind her evermore 
Of a patter along the floor, 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees, 
"With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there. 

There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 

With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use. 
And whose sight make such fond tears start. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 89 



MOTHEE'S BOYS. 



YES, I know there are stains on my carpet, 
The traces of small, muddy boots; 
And I see your fair tapestry glowing, 
And spotless with flowers and frui+s. 

And I know that my walls are disfigured 
With prints of small fingers and hands ; 

And that your own household most truly 
In immaculate purity stands. 

And I know that my parlor is littered 
With many old treasures and toys. 

While your own is in daintiest order, 
Unharmed by the presence of boys. 

And I know that my room is invaded 
Quite boldly all hours of the day ; 

While you sit in yours unmolested 
And dream the soft quiet away. 



90 , MOTHERS LOVE. 

Yes, I know there are four little bedsides 
"Where I must stand watchful each night, 

While you go out in your carriage, 
And flash in your dresses so bright. 

IsTow, I think I'm a neat little woman;. 

And I like my house orderly, too ; 
And am fond of all dainty belongings, 

Yet would not change places with you. 

"No ! keep your fair home with its order, 
Its freedom from bother and noise ; 

And keep your own fanciful leisure. 
But give me my four splendid boys. 




MOTHER'S LOVE. 91 



A MOTHER'S HEAET. 

Caroline NorUm. 

WHEE" first tliou comest, gentle, shy, and fond, 
My eldest born, first tope, and dearest treasure. 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
Kor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 

"Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; 

.Obedient, easy to be reconciled. 

And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child ! 

]N'ot willing to be left — still by my side, 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying ; 



n92 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Or by the coucli of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, or kiss the fevered cheek. 

boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

"No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade. 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love, — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the fire-light dancing. 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing. 

Full of wild and irrepressible mirth. 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy. 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundetli; 

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 93 

And many a mirthfal jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, 

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. 

At length thou camest — thou, the last and least, 
Nicknamed " The Emperor " by thy laughing brothers, 

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, 

Mingling with every playful infant wile 

A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And 0, most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow', 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming • 



94 MOTHERS LOVE. 

And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
And the firm hearing of thy conscious tread. 

DiiFerent from hoth ! yet each succeeding claim 
I, that all other love had heen forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
iNor injured either hy this love's comparing, 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all I 



QUEEK OF BABY LAOT). 

WHO is queen of hahy land ? 
Mother kind and sweet, 
And her love, horn ahove, 
Guides the little feet. 



T 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 95 

WILLY'S GEAVE. 

Edwin Waugh. 

IIE frosty wind was wailing wild across the wintry 
world ; 
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright with studs of 

gleaming gold ; 
The weary cotter's heavy Hds had closed with closing 

day, 
And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying fire-light lay. 

The ancient hamlet seemed asleep beneath the starry sky ; 
A little river sheathed in ice came gliding gently by, 
The gray church in the grave-yard where the " rude 

forefathers lay," 
Stood like a mother waiting till her children came from 

play. 

Ko footstep trod the tiny town, the drowsy street was 

still, 
Save when the wandering night wind sang its requiem 

wild and shrill, 



96 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The stainless snow lay thick upon those quaiat old cot- 
tage eaves, 

And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung where grew last 
summer's leaves. 

Each village home was dark and still, and closed was 

every door, 
For gentle sleep had twined her arms around both rich 

and poor, — 
Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's flickering ray, 
A childless mother sighing sat, and combed her locks 

of gray. 

Her husband and her children all were in the last cold 

bed, 
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, and left them 

with the dead ; 
Then toiling on towards her rest — a lonely pilgrim she— 
For God and poverty were now her only company. 

Upon the shady window-sill a well worn Bible lay ; 
Against the wall a coat had hung for many a weary day; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 97 

And on the scanty table-top with crumbs of supper 

strewn, 
There stood beside a porringer, two little empty shoon. 

The fire was waning in the grate,the spinning-wheel at rest, 
The cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely woman's nest. 
As with her napkin thin and worn, and wet with many 

a tear, 
She wiped the little pair of shoon her darling used to wear. 

Her widowed heart had often leaped to hear his prattle 
small; 

He was the last that she had left, the dearest of them all; 

And as she rocked her to and fro while tears came drop- 
ping down, 

She sighed and cried, " 0, Willy love, these little empty 
shoon ! " 

With gentle hand she laid them by, she laid them by 

with care, 
TTor Willy he was in his grave, and all her thoughts were 

there ; 



98 



M0THBE3 LOVE. 



She paused before slie dropped the snick that closed her 

lambless fold, 
It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in 

the cold. 

A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so 

thin and chill; 
She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was 

still; 
And through the solitary night- she took her silent 

way 
With weeping eyes, toward the spot where little Willy 

lay. 

The pale cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin 

blue, 
A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadows 

threw ; 
And as that mournfal mother sat upon a mound thereby, 
The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear her wailing 

cry. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 99 

" My little "Willy's cowed an' still ! He's not a cheep 

for me ! 
Th' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf that cheered 

this withered tree. 
Oh, my poor heart? my comfort's gone, aw'm lonely 

under th' sky ! 
He'll never chip my cheek again, and tell me not to 

ciy!" 

"]^ipt-nipt i' th' bud, an' laid i' th' dust, my little 

Willy's dead. 
And a' that made me cling to life lies in this frosty 

bed, — 
He's gone ! He's gone ! My poor bare nest ! "What's 

a' this world to me ! 
My darlin' lad ! aw'm lonely neaw ; when mun aw come 

to thee?'' 

" He's crept into this last dark nook, and left me pinin 

here ! 
An' never moore his two blue e'en for me mun twinkle 

clear, 



100 MOTHERS LOVE. 

He'll never lisp Ms prayers again at his poor mammy's 

knee; 
Oh, Willy 1 oh aw'm lonely neaw, when mun aw come 

to thee?" 

The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear thali 

plaintive cry; 
The old church listened, and the spire kept pointing to 

the sky ; 
With kindlier touch the hitter wind played in her locks 

of gray, 
And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a 

softened ray. 

She rose to leave that lonely bed, her heart was grieving 

sore, — 
One step she took and then her tears fell faster than 

before ; 
She turned and gave another look, — one lingering look 

she gave, — 
Then sighing left him lying in his little wintry grave. 



I 



MOTHEB'S LOVE. 101 



MOTHER-LOVE. 

K r. Mffrgan, 
GAVE my maiden-love tender . lid shy, 
And yet I was sad. Why ? O why ? 



I gave my wife-love pure and true, 
And yet — and yet I was longing too ! 

God gave me mother-love warm and strong, 
And my sadness was lost in my lullaby song. 



FATHER, we will be comforted ! 
Thou wast the gracious giver ! 
We yield her up — not dead, not dead— 

To dwell with thee forever. 
Take thou our child, — ours for a day. 

Thine while the ages blossom. 
This little shining head we lay 
In the Redeemer's bosom. 



102 MOTHERS LOVE, 



THE BABY. 

IF we knew the baby fingers, 
Pressed against tbe window pane, 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow — 

ITever trouble us again — 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 
Catch the frown upon our brow ? — 
Would the prints of rosy fingers 
Vex us then as they do now ? 

Ah ! those little ice-cold fingers, 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track ! 
How those Httle hands remind us 

As in snowy grace they he, 
E"ot to scatter thorns^but roses— 

For our reaping by and by. 




Sweet is the image of the brcoding dove T 

Holy as heaven a mother's tender love. -Mrs. Norton. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 103 

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. 

Robert Smyth Chilton 

SHE sits beside the cradle, 
And her tears are streaming fast, 
For she sees the present only, 

While she thinks of all the past : 
Of the days so full of gladness, 

When her first-born's answering kiss 
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture 

That it knew no other bliss. 
those happy, happy moments ! 

They but deepen her despair ; 
For she bends above the cradle. 

And her baby is not there ! 

There are words of comfort spoken, 

And the leaden clouds of grief 
Wear the smiling bow of promise, 

And she feels a sad relief; 
But her wavering thoughts will wander. 

Till they settle on the scene 



104 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Of the dark and silent chamber, 
And of all that might have been. 

For a little vacant garment, 
Or a shining tress of hair. 

Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, 
That her baby is not there ! 

She sits beside the cradle. 

But her tears no longer flow, 
For she sees a blessed vision, 

And forgets all earthly woe ; 
Saintly eyes look down upon her, 

And the Yoice that hushed the sea 
Stills her spirit with the whisper 

" Suffer them to come to Me.^' 
And while her soul is lifted 

On the soaring wings of prayer. 
Heaven's crystal gates swing inward. 

And she sees her baby there ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 105 

MATEEI^AL LOYE. 

Alexander' Bethune, 

UKLIKE all other things earth knows, 
(All else naay fade or change), 
The love in a mother's heart that glows, 

I^aught earthly can estrange. 
Concentrated and strong, and hright, 

A vestal flame it glows 
With pure, self-sacrificing light, 

Which no cold shadow knows. 

All that hy mortal can he done 

A mother ventures for her son ; 

If marked hy worth or merit high, 

Her hosom heats with ecstacy ; 

And though he own nor worth nor charm, 

To him her faithful heart is warm. 

Though wayward passions round him close. 

And fame and fortune prove his foes ; 

Through every change of good and ill. 

Unchanged, a mother loves him still. 

Even love itself, than life more dear, — 



106 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 



Its interchange of hope and fear ; 
Its feeling oft akin to madness ; 
Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness ; 
Its melting moods of tenderness, 
And fancied wrongs, and fond redress, 
Hath naught to form so strong a tie 
As her deep sympathies supply. 




MOTHER'S LO VE, 107 



MY MOTHER'S SOKG. 

THIS quiet autumn evening, out through the autumn 
gloom, 
My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old 

home ; 
And through the misty distance the years seem sad and 

long. 
Since 'neath the roof in childhood, I heard my mother's 
song; — 

A sweet old simple ballad, whose notes were soft and 

low, 
Still o'er the heart its echo in soothing numbers flow. 
Though in the grave's dark chambers, the lips are silent 

long, 
That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song. 

Oh, mother ! though long parted, the memory of thy 

love 
Dlumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above ; 



108 MOTBER'S LOVE. 

It nerves us in our trials to suffer and be strong — 
The sunny days of childhood come back with that old 
song. 

On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain, 
It falls as on the flowers falls the softest summer rain ; 
And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong, 
In notes of gentle warning I hear my mother's song. 

That dear old song must ever fl.nd an echo in my heart, 
'Till by death's icy fingers its chords are snapped apart ; 
One strain would still be wanting the angel choirs 

among 
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's 

song. 




MOTHEBTS LQVE. 109 



MY DAELEsTG'S SHOES. 

GOD bless tlie little feet that can never go astray, 
For the little shoes are empty, in my closet laid 
away. 
I sometimes take one in my hand, forgetting till I see 
It is a little half-worn shoe, and much too small for me ; 
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, 
And sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in 
twain. 

Oh, little feet, that weary not, 1 wait for them no more, 
For I am drifting on the tide, and they have reached 

the shore ; 
And while the bhnding tear-drops wet these little shoes 

so old, 
I try to think my darling's feet are treading streets of 

gold: 
And then I lay them down again, but always turn and 

say, 
God 1)1 ess the little feet that now so surely cannot stray. 



110 MOTHERS LOVE. 

And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see 
The little form beside me just as it used to be; 
The little face uplifted, with its soft and tender eyes— 
Ah, me ! I might have known that look was born for 

Paradise. 
I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty 

air, 
For there is nothing of my darling but the shoes he 

used to wear. 

Oh ! the bitterness of parting cannot be done away 

Until I meet my darling, where his feet can never stray ; 

When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, 

But with him safely landed upon the river-side. 

Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see the shining way, 

For the little feet in the shining street can never go 

astray. 

• — Anonymous. 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 111 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

James Montgomery. 

A MOTHER'S love,— how sweet the name ! 
What is a mother's love ? — 
A noble, pure, and tender flame. 

Enkindled from above. 
To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
A warmer love than can grow cold ; 
This is a mother's love. 

To bring a helpless babe to light, 

Then, while it lies forlorn, 
To gaze upon that dearest sight, 

And feel herself new-born. 
In its existence lose her own, 
And live and breathe in it alone ; 

This is a mother's love. 

Its weakness in her arms to bear ; 

To cherish on her breast. 
Feed it from love's own fountain there. 



113 MOTHERS LQVE. 

And lull it there to rest ; 
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath, 
As if to guard from instant death ; 

This is a mother's love. 

To mark its growth from day to day, 
Its opening charms admire, . 

Catch from its eye the earliest ray 
Of intellectual fire ; 

To smile and listen while it talks, 

And lend a finger when it walks ; 
This is a mother's love. 

And can a mother's love grow cold : 

Can she forget her boy ? 
His pleading innocence behold, 

E"or weep for grief — for joy ? 
A mother may forget her child. 
While wolves devour it on the wild ; 

Is this a mother's love ? 

Ten thousand voices answer, " 'Eo ! " 
Ye clasp your babes and ki?;? ; 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 113 

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; 

Yet, ah ! remember this, — 
The infant, reared alone for earth. 
May live, may die,— to curse his birth ; — 

Is this a mother's love ? 

A parent's hand may prove a snare ; 

The child she loves so well. 
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 

Down the smooth road to hell ; 
I^ourish its frame, — destroy its mind : 
Thus do the blind mislead the blind, 
Even with a mother's love. 

Blest infant ! whom his mother taught 

Early to seek the Lord, 
And poured upon his dawning thought 

The day-spring of the word ; 
This was the lesson to her son — 
Time is eternity begun : 

Behold that mother's love. 



iU MOTHERS LOVE. 

Blest mother ! who, in wisdom's path, 

By her own parent trod, 
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, 

And know the fear of God : 
Ah, youth! hke him enjoy your prime ; 
Begin eternity in time, 

Taught by that mother's love. 

That mother's love ! — how sweet the name! 

What Avas that mother's love ? — 
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, 

That kindles from above. 
Within a heart of earthly mould, 
As much of heaven as heart can hold, 
l^ov through eternity grows cold : 

This was that motJiers love. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 115 



IS IT THOU, MOTHER? 

LO^G years ago she visited my chamber, 
Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand. 
Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids, 

Fair as an angel from the unknown land ; 
Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 
Mother, mother, watching over me. 

And yesterday night I saw her cross my chamber 
Soundless and light, a palm branch in her hand ; 

Her mild eyes bent upon my anguish, 
Calm as an angel from the blessed land ; 

Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 

Mother, mother, art thou come for me? 



116 MOTHEKS LOVK 



KISS MY EYELIDS DQW^ TO-OTGIIT. 

KISS me, mother, kiss me gently. 
Kiss my eyelids down to-night, 
Pm so lonely, and without you 
Cannot say my prayers aright. 

Kiss my eyelids, loving mother, 

As you did in days long gone 
When I slept upon your bosom. 

Kiss them, mother, just once more. 

Sing to me, my darling mother, 

Sing your softest lullaby ; 
Let me dream that I am sitting 

Once again upon your knee. 

Let my dreams be all about you, 
Let them all be pure and bright. 

Let me dream that you will always 
Kiss my eyelids down at night. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 117 



GEKERAL GARFIELD'S MOTHER. 

11 THEE" James A. Garfield was a child, when he was 
T T a grown up boy, and when he was a young 
man, his mother's love prompted her to toil and care for 
him, and to lead him in the ways of truthfulness and up- 
rightness. In return for her faithful toil and love and 
care, he labored to make her happy, and to do her honor. 

When Garfield was inaugurated President of the 
United States, on the 4th of March, 1881, after he had 
taken the oath of office in the presence of many thou- 
sand people, he kissed the Holy Bible, and then turned 
and kissed his aged mother, and his wife. ISTo artist 
can do justice to that event. He knew how proud his 
mother was to see him installed in the highest office in 
the gift of the American people, and in that hour of 
exaltation his heart turned to her. 

Months rolled by, and he was assassinated; and 
during all the long, weary weeks of terrible suffering 
that followed, he wrote but one letter, and that was to 
his mother. He knew she was weeping for him, 



118 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

and that her thoughts were all of her " dear afflicted 
son." He knew well the depths of his mother's love, 
that she longed and prayed for his recovery every hour 
of the long and weary days ; and in answer to this love, 
he wrote only to her during those dreadful weeks. 

He was surrounded by men of state, attended by 
the leading physicians of the country, and anxiously in- 
quired after and sympathized with by all civilized 
nations on earth ; he was watched over and cared for 
by many good friends, and by a devoted and faithful 
wife ; yet in the midst of all this, his thoughts turned 
to his old home. 

" Mother ! dear motlier ! my heart calls for you." 

" I must write to mother ;" and calling for pen and 

/ 

ink, he wrote the only letter penned by him after the 
assassin struck him down. 

When Garfield's mother heard of his assassination, 
she exclaimed : " Oh ! why did they shoot my baby ? " 
He was her youngest child, and her thoughts went back 
through the years of toil and care, and he was again at 
her knee. " My baby," was the dearest name, and the 
depths of a mother's love, surpassed alone by the love 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 119 

of God for the world, was awakened in her heart, and 
found expression in words that were dear to her when 
the President of the United States was a child in her 
arms. 



rriHE parental love which fills a woman's heart when 
•^ she holds her little child in her arms, as even we 
childless ones must see, is something so divine, so pure 
from all selfishness, where it is felt aright, that every 
care and fatigue and sacrifice comes to the mother as a 
matter of course. — Frances Power Cohte. 



1 



LL that I am my mother made me. — John Quincy 
Adams. 



rriHE mother's yearning, that complete type of life 
-*- in another's life which is the essence of real human 
love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in 
the base, degraded man. — George Eliot. 



120 MOTHERS LOVE. 



■WHEEE'SMYBABT? 

WHEEE'S my baby ? Where's my baby ? 
But a little while ago, 
In my arms I held one fondly, 

And a robe of lengthened flow 
Covered httle knees so dimpled, 
And each pink and chubby toe. 

Where's my baby ? I renaember 

I^ow about the shoes so red, 
Peeping from his shortened dresses, 

And the bright curls on his head ; 
Of the little teeth so pearly. 

And the first sweet words he said. 

Where's my baby ? Ask that urchin, 

Let me hear what he will say ; 
" Where's your baby, ma ? " he questioned, 

With a rougish look and way ; 
" Guess he's grown to be a bo}^, now, 

Big enough to vfoik and play." 



MOTHERS LOVE. 121 

Where's my baby ? Where's my baby ? 

Ah ! the years fly on apace ! 
Yesterday I held and kissed it, 

In its lovehness and grace ; 
But to-morrow sturdy manhood 

Takes the little baby's place. 



I AM the mother of an immortal being! God be 
merciful to me, a sinner! — Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 



LITTLE BOOTS. 

— Mrs. L. B. Janes, 
TTOT those I sadly laid away, 
1^ With little stockings soft and gay, 
That sunless, heart-sick, saddest day, 

I passed beneath the rod ; 
I wipe from them the gathering mold, 
I wonder at their growing old, 
Then I think how long the streets of gold 

My little one has trod. 



122 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

To-day a little larger pair 

Are traversing the hall and stair, 

Or somersaulting in the air, 

Are never, never still : 
Down at the heel ! Out at the toes ! 
Mud-covered ! every mother knows 
How " in-and-out " hei:* dear boy goes, 

Oft chide him as she will. 

But life and strength and glowing health, 
Come through those little boots by stealth. 
And willing errands, love's sweet wealth 

At bidding brings us joy, 
Bear with the little boots I pray; 
Soon into life they'll walk away, 
And sitting lone, your heart will say, 

Where is my little boy ? 



OF all the relations of womanhood, wives and moth- 
ers only can enjoy "the harvest song" of inward 
peace. — Mrs. Barbauld. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 123 



THE MOTHEE WA:NTS HEE BOY. 

THEEE'S a homestead waiting for you, my boy, 
In a quaint old-fashioned town ; 
The gray moss dings to the garden wall, 

And the dwelling is low and brown ; 
But a vacant chair by the fireside stands, 

And never a grace is said ; 
But a mother prays that her absent son. 
Soon may be homeward led. 
For the mother wants her boy. 

She trains the vines and tends the flowers, 

Eor she says, " My boy will come ; 
And I want the quiet, humble place 

To be just the dear old home 
That it seemed when he, a gentle lad, 

Used to pluck the orchard's gold, 
And gather of roses and lilies tall. 

Far more than his hands could hold. 
And still I want my boy." 



124 MOTHER 8 LOVE. 

How well she knows the very place 

Where you played at bat and ball : 
And the violet cap yon wore to school, 

Still hangs on its hook in the hall ; 
And when the twihght hour draws near 
She steals adown the lane 
' To cosset the lambs you used to pet, 
And dream you were home again ; 
For the mother wants her boy. 

She is growing old, and her eyes are dim 

"With watching day by day, 
For the children nurtured at her breast 

Have slipt from her arms away ; 
Alone and lonely, she names the hours 

As the dear ones come and go : 
Their coming she calls " The time of flowers ! " 

Their going, " The hours of snow ! " 
And ever she wants her boy. 

Walk on, toil on ; give strength and mind 
To the task in your chosen place ; 

But never forget the dear old home, 
And the mother's loving face ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 125 

You may count your blessings score on score, 

You may reap your golden grain, 
But remember when her grave is made 

Your coming will be in vain, — 
'Tis now she wants her boy. 



MY OLD SILYEE THIMBLE. 

— ifrs. 8. J. Megagee. 

THE old silver thimble I've worn for years, 
How much it has helped me to do ! 
In mending the rents in little ones' clothes, 
Or making them clothes that were new. 

At morn it has shone on my finger, 

"When the dew still sprinkled the flowers, 

And has taken the gleam of the lamplight 
'Mid latest of night's quiet hours. 

It helped me to fashion the trousers. 
Which Johnnie was proud to display. 

And the fairy-like dresses that clung to 
The delicate form of dear May. 



126 MOTHERS LOVE. 

In the dark room it quietly glittered, 
When our sweet little baby lay dead ; 

Whilst it pressed in the needle that broidered 
The tiny lace cap for it head. 

And again, in the time of the bridal, 
'Twas ready to help us its best, 

In forming the robes of the birdling 
Then leaving the warm parent nest. 

And so it has proven trustworthy 
For what it was called on to do, 

ISTo flaws have come o'er its clear surface, 
Its silver is sterling and true. 

And though for the " latest invention," 
That takes up the stitches so fast. 

It is sometimes unused and neglected, 
'Tis bright as it was in the past. 

. If we, who have souls in our bodies, 
Were staunch as this thimble has been, 
On earth would be more of God's people. 
And less of corruption and sin. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 127 

Then standing at last with freed spirits, 
At the great gates of jasper and gold, 

The angels would warmly enclose us 
In God's ever-glorious fold. 



HEE MOTHEK'S EAE. 



— Emma M. Johnston. 

THEY sat at the spinning together^ 
And they spun the fine white thread ; 
One face was old and the other young, 
A golden and silver head. 

And at times the young voice broke in song 

That was wonderfully sweet, 
And the mother's heart beat deep and calm, 

For her joy was most complete. 

And at times the mother counseled 

In a voice so soft and low, 
How the untried feet of her daughter 

Through this strange, rough life should go. 



128 MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 

There was many a holy lesson 
Inwoven with silent prayer, 

Taught to her gentle, listening child 
As they two sat spinning there. 

" And of all that I speak, my darling. 
From my older head and heart, 
God giveth me one last thing to say, 
And with it thou shalt not part. 

" Thou wilt listen to many voices — 
And ah, woe that this must be ! — 
The voice of praise and the voice of love 
And the voice of flattery ; 

"But listen to me, my dearest one : 

There's one thing that thou shalt fear, 
Let never a word to my love be said 
Which her mother may not hear. 

" ISTo matter how true, my darling one. 
The words may seem to thee, 
They are not fit for my child to hear 
If they cannot be told to me. 



MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 129 

" If thou'lt ever keep thy young heart pure, 

And thy mother's heart from fear, 
Bring all that is told to thee by day 
At night to thy mother's ear." 

And thus they sat spinning together, 

And an angel bent to see 
The mother and child whose happy life 

Went on so lovingly. 

And a record was made by his golden pen. 

And this on his page he said, 
That the mother who counseled her child so •well 

I^eed never feel afraid ; 

For God would keep the heart of the child, 

"Who, with tender love and fear. 
Should kneel at her mother's side at night. 

With her lips to her mother's ear. 



H 



E is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds 
peace in his home. — Goethe. 



130 MOTHER'S LOVE, 



MY GOOD, OLD-FASHIOITED MOTHEE. 

— Mrs. 8. T. Perry. 

npHE Y brought home the portrait last night to me ; 
-^ On the parlor walls it is hung. 
I gave to the artist a picture small, 

Which was taken when she was young. 
It's true to life ; and there's a look in the eyes 

I never saw in another ; 
And the same sweet smile that she always wore — 

'Tis my good, old-fashioned mother. 

The hair in the picture 's wavy and dark, 

'Twas taken before she was gray ; 
And the same short curls, at the side, hang down — 

For she always wore it that way. 
Her hand on the Bible easily rests. 

As when, with sisters and brother, - 
I knelt at her knee, reciting my verse. 

To my good, old-fashioned mother. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 131 

Her dress it is plain and qnite out of style, 

JSTot a puff or ruffle is there ; 
And no jewels or gold glitter and shine — 

She never had any to wear. 
Ambition for wealth, or love of display, 

"We could not even discover, 
For poor in spirit and humble in heart 

Was my good, old-fashioned mother. 

Her life v^as crowded with work and with care; 

How did she accomplish it all ! 
I do not remember she ever complained. 

And yet she was slender and small. 
Motives of life that were selfish or wrong, 

With Christian grace did she smother. 
She lived for her God and the loved ones at home, 

My true, good, old-fashioned mother. 

The years of her hf e were only three-score, 
When the messenger whispered low, 
"The Master has come and calleth for thee," 
She answered, ^'I'm ready to go." 



133 M0THEE8 LOYE. 

I gaze alone on her portrait to-night, 
And more than ever I love her, 

And I thank the Lord that He gave to me 
Such a good, old-fashioned mother. 



¥HE!N" Eve was brought unto Adam, he became 
filled with the Holy Spirit, and gave her the 
most sanctified, the most glorious of appellations. He 
called her Eva, that is, mother ; he did not style her 
wife, but simply mother — mother of all living crea- 
tures. In this consists the glory and most precious 
ornament of woman. — Luther. 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 

— Bernard Barton. 
rPHEEE blend the ties that strengthen 
■*- Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief. 



Momm3 10 VM m 

A MOTHER'S TREASURES. 

T HA YE some withered flowers 

-■- That are softly laid away ; 

'Not because they were so beautiful 

And fragrant in their day, 
But little fingers clasped them, 

And little hps caressed, 
And little hands so tenderly 

Placed them on a "mother's" breast. 
The paper that enfolds them 

Was white in other years. 
But 'tis rumpled now and crumpled, 

And stained with many tears. 
Yet, though they looked so worthless. 

This paper and the flowers. 
They clasp and hold, like links of gold, 

Memories of jewel hours. 

I have some little ringlets. 

They are softly laid away. 
Their lustre and their beauty 

Are like the sun's glad ray. 



134 MOTHER'S LOVK 

Eut 'tis not for this I prize them ; 

It is that they restore ' 

The tender grace of loving face 

That gladdens earth no more. 

As the shipwrecked men at midnight 

Have oft been known to chng, 
With a silent prayer, in wild despair, 

To some frail, floating thing ; 
So I, in darkened moment. 

Clasp, with a voiceless prayer. 
While wandering wide on grief's deep tide, 

These locks of golden hair. 

I have some broken playthings 

That are softly laid away 
With some dainty little garments 

Made in a long-past day. 
In each there is a history, 

But this I may not teU, 
Lest the old, old flood of sorrow , 

Again should rise and swell. 



MOTHER' 8 LOVR 135 

ITow that the skies are brightened, 

And the fearful storm is o'er, 
Let me sit in tender cahnness 

On memory's silent shore. 
And count the simple treasures 

That still remain to show 
Where hope's fair freight, by saddest fate, 

Was shipwrecked long ago. 

I have another treasure 

That is softly laid away. 
And though I have not seen it 

This many a weary day, 
From ever3rthing around me 

Comes a token and a sign 
That 'tis fondly watched and guarded. 

And that it still is mine. 

When the flowers lie dead in winter. 

In their winding-sheets of snow, 
We know they'll rise to charm our eyes 

Again in suminer's glow ; 



ISa MOTHERS a LOVE, 

Thus I, in this chill season. 

When frost and darkness reign, 
Wait the blest spring whose warmth shall bring 

Life to my flower again. 



BETTEE m THE MOEOTFG. 



— Leander S. Coan. 



i i TTOU can't help the baby, parson, 
JL But still I want ye to go 
Down an' look in upon her, 

An' read an' pray, you know. 
Only last week she was skippin' round 
A puUin' my whiskers and hair, 
- A climbin' up to the table 
Into her little high-chair. 

" The first night that she took it, 
When her httle cheeks grew red, 
When she kissed good-night to papa, 
And went away to bed — 



MOTHEBS LOVE. iSt 

Sez she, ^ 'Tis headache, papa. 

Be better in mornin', bye ;' 
An' somethin' in how she said it 

Jest made me want to cry. 

" But the mornin' brought the fever, 

And her little hands were hot, 
And the pretty red of her little cheeks 

Grew into a crimson spot. 
But she laid there jest ez patient 

Ez ever a woman could, 
Takin' whatever we give her 

Better'n a grown woman would. 

" The days are terrible long an' slow, 
An' she's growin' wus in each ; 
An' now she's jest a slippin' 

Clear away out ov our reach. 
Every night when I kiss her, 

Tryin' hard not to cry, 
She says in a way that kills me — 
« Be better in mornin'— bye ! ' 



138 M0THEW8 LOVE. 

" She can't get through the night, parson, 

So I want ye to come an' pray, 
And talk with mother a httle — 

You'll know jest what to say. 
Not that the baby needs it, 

Nor that we make any complaint 
That God seems to think he's needin' 

The smile uv the little saint." 

I walked along with the corporal 

To the door of his humble home. 
To which the silent messenger 

Before me had already come ; 
And if he had been a titled prince 

I would not have been honored more 
Than I was with his heartfelt welcome 

To his lowly cottage-door. 

Night falls again in the cottage ; 

They move in silence and dread 
Around the room where the baby 

Lies panting upon her bed. 



MOTHER' 8 LOVB, 139 

" Does baby know papa, darling ? " 
And she moves her little face, 
With answer that shows she knows him ; 
But scarcely a visible trace 

Of her wonderful infantile beauty 

Eemains as it was before 
The unseen, silent messenger 

Had waited at the door. 
" Papa — kiss— baby ; I's — so — ^tired." 

The man bows low his face, 
And two swollen hands are lifted 

In baby's last embrace. 

And into her father's grizzled beard 

The little red fingers cling. 
While her husky whispered tenderness 

Tears from a rock would wring. 
"Baby — is — so — sick — papa — 

3ut — don't — want — you — ^to — cry." 
The little hands fell on the coverlet— 

"Be — better — in — mornin' — bye 1 " 



140 MomER'8 LOW. 

And night around baby is falling. 

Settling down dark and dense ; 
Does God need tbeir darling in heaven, 

That he must carry her hence ? 
I prayed with tears in my voice, 

As the corporal solemnly knelt, 
With such grief as never before 

His great warm heart had felt. 

Oh ! frivolous men and women ! 

Do you know that around you and nigh- 
Alike from the humble and haughty — 
* Goeth up evermore the cry: 

"My child, my precious, my darling, 

How can I let you die?'' 
Oh, hear ye the white lips whisper, 

" Be — ^better — in — mornin' — bye ! " 



OE"E lamp, thy mother's love, aniid the stars shall 
lift its pure flame changeless, and before the throne 
of God burn through eternity. — JV. P Willis, 



MOTHEES LOVE, 141 



THE MOTHEE. 

—E, V. S. 

** A perfect woman nobly planned." 

B'EYER too tired to hear or heed 
The sHghtest cry of her children's need ; 
I^ever impatient in look or word, 
By what tender thoughts her heart is stirred. 

Through nights of watching and busy days. 
Unwearied, she asks no meed of praise ; 
For others spending and being spent. 
She finds therein her sweet content. 

Though decked in no robes of silken sheen, 
In her small domain she walks a queen ; 
Outshining far the costliest gem. 
A spirit meek is her diadem. 

Though fortune frown, she is brave of heart, 
'No selfish thought in her life has part ; 
Patient and trustful though storms may lower ; 
A faithful friend in life's darkest hour. 



143 MOTHEKS LOVE. 



A MOTHEE'S WOEK 

"She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not 
the bread of idleness." — Prov. xxxi, 27. 

EAELY in the morning, 
Up as soon as light, 
Overseeing breakfast, 

Putting things a-right. 
Dressing httle children. 
Hearing lessons said, 
"Washing baby faces. 
Toasting husband's bread. 

After breakfast, reading. 

Holding one at prayers ; 
Putting up the dinners. 

Mending little tears ; 
Good-bye, kissing children, 

Sending off to school, 
"With a prayer and blessing, 

Mother's heart is full. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 143 

Washing up the dishes, 

Sweeping carpets clean, 
Doing up the chamber-work. 

Sewing on machine ; 
Baby lies a-crying, 

Rubbing little eyes ; 
Mother leaves her sewing 

To sing the lullabies. 

Cutting little garments, 

Trimming children's hats. 
Writing for the piapers, 

With callers having chats ; 
Hearing little footsteps 

Running through the hall, 
TeUing school is over, 

As mamma's name they call. 

Talking with the children 

All about their school, 
Soothing little troubles, 

Teaching grammar rules ; 



144 M0TEEE8 LOVE. 

Seeing about supper, 
Lighting up the room, 

Making home look cheerful, 
Expecting husband soon. 

Then, with all her headaches, 

Keeping to herself, 
Always looking cheerful, 

Other lives to bless. 
Putting to bed children. 

Hearing say their prayers, 
Giving all a good-night's kiss 

Before she goes down-stairs. 

Once more in the parlor. 

Sitting down to rest, 
Eeading in the Bible 

How His promises are blest ; 
Taking all her sorrows 

And every care to One, 
"With that trusting, hopeful heart. 

Which none but mothers own. 



M0TEEE8 LOVE, 145 



THE MOTHEE'S DAY-DEEAM. 

-^. a M. 

AMOTHEE sat at her sewing, 
But her brow was full of thought; 
The little one playing beside her, 

Her own sweet mischief wrought. 
A book on a chair lay near her ; 

'Twas open, I strove to see, 
At the old Greek artist's story : 
"I paint for eternity." 

So I fancied all her dreaming; 

I watched her serious eye, 
As the 'broidery dropped from her fingers, 

And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. 
She drew the httle one nearer. 

And looked on the sunny face, 
Swept the bright curls from the open brow, 

And kissed it with loving grace. 



146 MOTHERS LOVE. 

And she thought : " I, too, am an artist ; 

My hfe-work here I see, 
This sweet, dear face, my hand must trace, 

I must paint for eternity. 
Hence, each dark passion shadow ! 

Pain's deeply-graven lines ! 
Hers must be the reflected beauty 

That from the pure heart shines. 

"But how shall I blend the colors. 

How mingle the light and shade, 
Or arrange the weird surroundings 

The future has arrayed ? 
Oh, life ! thou hast weary night-falls, 

And days all drear that be, 
But, from thy darkness, marvelous grace 

Wilt thou evoke for me ? 

"Alas, that I am but a learner ! 
So where shall I make me wise, 
Or obtain the rare old colors. 
The Master's precious dyes ? 



MOTHEES LOVE. 147 

I must haste to the fount of beauty, 

Must pleadingly kneel at His feet, 
And crave, 'mid His wiser scholars, 

The humblest pupil's seat. 

" Then, hand 9-nd heart together, 

Some grace shall add each day ; 
Thus, thus, shall her face grow lustrous 

With beauty that cannot decay. 
My darling ! God guide my pencil. 

And grant me the vision to see 
In the light of His love, without blemish or stain. 

In the coming eternity." 

Then the mother awoke from her day-dream. 

Her face grew bright again, 
And I knew her faith was strengthened 

By more than angel's ken. 
Her lingers flew the faster, 

As she sang a soft, low song; 
It seemed hke a prayer for the child so fair, 

As it thrilled the air along. 



148 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A¥ IKDIAIT MOTHEE'S LOYE. 

OS-HE-OUH-MAI, the wife of Little Wolf, one of the Iowa 
Indians, died while at Paris, of an affection of the lungs, 
brought on bj grief for the death of her young child in Lon- 
don. Her husband was unremitting in his endeavors to console and 
restore her to the love of life ; but she constantly replied : " No, 
no ; my four children recall me. I see them by the side of the 
Great Spirit. They stretch out their arms to me, and are astonished 
that I do not join them." 

No ! no ! I must depart 
From earth's pleasant scenes, for they but wake 
Those thrilling memories of the lost which shake 

The life-sands from my heart. 

Why do ye bid me stay? 
Should the rose linger when the young buds die, 
Or the tree flourish when the branches lie 

Stricken by sad decay? 

Doth not the parent dove, ^ 

When her young nurslings leave their lowly home 
And soar on joyous wings to heaven's blue dome, 

Fly the deserted grave ? 




THE INDIAN MOTHER. 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 149 

"Why, then, should I remain ? 
Have I not seen my sweet- voiced warblers soar 
So far away that Love's fond wiles no more 

May lure them back again ? 

They cannot come to me ; 
But I may go to them — and, as the "flower 
Awaits the dewy eve, I wait the hour 

That sets my spirit free. 

Hark ! heard ye not a sound 
Sweeter than wild-bird's note or minstrel's lay ? 
I know that music well, for night and day 

I hear it echoing round. 

It is the tuneful chime 
Of spirit voices ; — 'tis my infant band 
Calling the mourner from this darkened land 

To Joy's unclouded clime. 

My beautiful, my blest ! 
I see them there, by the Great Spirit's throne ; 



150 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Witli winning words and fond beseeching tone 
They woo me to my rest. 

They chide my long delay, 
And wonder that I linger from their home ; 
Thev stretch their loving arms to hid me come — 

!N"ow would ye have me stay ? 

— Heavenly Recognition^ 




MOTHERS LOVE. 151 

EXPEEIENCE. 

A little dreaming, such as motliers know ; 

A little lingering over dainty things ; 
A happy heart, wherein love all aglow 

Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings, 
And that is all. 
A little clasping to her yearning breast ; 

A little musing over future years ; 
A heart that prays, " Dear Lord, thou knowest best. 

But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears," — 
And that is all. 

A little spirit speeding through the night ; 

A little home grown lonely, dark and chill ; 
A sad heart, groping blindly for the light ; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill ; 
And that is all. 
A Httle gathering of hf e's broken thread ; 

A little patience keeping back the tears ; ^ 
A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, 

God keeps her safe through His eternal years," — 
And that is all. 



153 MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 



A MOTHEE'S CAEES. 

I DO not think that I could bear 
My daily weight of woman's care 
If it were not for this, 
That Jesus seemeth always near, 
Unseen, but whispering in my ear 
Some tender word of love and cheer. 
To fill my soul with bliss ! 

There are so many trivial cares 

That no one knows and no one shares, 

Too small for me to tell ; 
^Things e'en my husband cannot see ; 
ITor his dear love uplift from me 
Each hour's unnamed perplexity, 

That mothers know so well. 

The failure of some household scheme, 
The ending of some pleasant dream, 
Deep hidden in my breast ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 153 

The weariness of children's noise, 
The yearning for that subtle poise 
That turneth duties into joys, 
And giveth inner rest. 

These secret things, however small. 
Are known to Jesus, each and all. 

And this thought brings me peace. 
I do not need to say one word ; 
He knows what thought my heart hath stirred. 
And by divine caress my Lord 

Makes all its throbbing cease. 

And then upon his loving breast 
My weary head is laid at rest, 

In speechless ecstasy ! 
Until it seemeth all in vain 
That care, fatigue, or mortal pain 
Should hope to drive me forth again 

From such felicity ! 



154 MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 



I 



PAPA'S LETTEE. 

(a widow's stoey.) 
WAS sitting in my study, 



Writing letters, when I heard, 

" Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 

Mamma mustn't be disturbed. 

" But I's so tired of the kitty. 
Want some ozzer fing to do, 
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma ? 
Tan't I wite a letter too ? " 

" Not now, darling, mamma's busy ; 

Run and play with kitty now." 
" 1^0, no, mamma, me wite a letter ! 

Tan if 'ou will show me how." 

I would paint my darling's portrait 
As his sweet eyes searched my face — 

Hair of gold and eyes of azure. 
Form of childish witching grace. 



MOTHERS LOVE, 155 

But the eager face was clouded, 

As I slowly shook my head, 
Till I said, " I'll make a letter 

Of you, darling boy, instead." 

So I parted back the tresses 
From his forehead high and white. 

And a postage stamp I pasted 
'Mid its waves of golden light. 

Then said I, " JSTow little letter. 
Go away and bear good news ; " 

And I smiled as down the staircase, 
Clattered loud the little shoes. 

Leaving me, the darling hurried 
Down to Mary in his glee, — 
" Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 
I's a letter, Mary, — see ! " 

1^0 one heard the little prattle 
As once more he climbed the stair, 

Reaching his little cap and tippet. 
Standing on the entry stair. 



15© MOTHER 8 LOVE. 

No one heard the front door open, 
E'o one saw the golden hair, 

As it floated o'er his shoulders 
In the crisp October air. 

Down the street the baby hastened 
Till he reached the office door, 
** I's a letter, Mr. Postman , 
Is there room for more ? 

"'Cause dis letter, doin' to papa; 
Papa lives with God, 'ou know. 
Mamma sent me for a letter ; 
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan do ? " 

But the clerk in wonder answered, 
" IvTot to-day, my little man." 
" Den I'll find anover office, 
'Cause I must go if I tan." 

Pain the clerk would have detained him, 
But the pleading face was gone. 

And the little feet were hastening — 
As the busy crowd swept on. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 157 

Suddenly the crowd was parted, 

People fled to left and right 
As a pair of maddened horses. 

At the moment dashed in sight. 

IsTo one saw the babj figure — 

No one saw the golden hair, 
Till a voice of frightened sweetness 

Eang out on the autumn air. 

'Twas too late — a moment only 
Stood the beauteous vision there, 

Then the li'ttle face lay hfeless, 
Covered o'er with golden hair. 

Eeverently they raised my darling. 

Brushed away the curls of gold, 
Saw the stamp upon the forehead, 

'Growing now so icy cold. 

ITot a mark the face disfigured, 

Showing where a hoof had trod ; 
But the little life was ended — 
"Papa's letter" was with God. 



158 MOTHER 8 LOVE. 



TO MY MOTHER 



— iV. p. Willis. 



MOTHEK! dear mother! the feelings nurst, 
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
'Tis the only one that will long remain; 
And, as year by year, and day by day, 
Some friend still trusted drops away. 
Mother! dear mother! oh, dost thou see 
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee? —Early Poems. 



'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — 
The east is flecked with cloudy bars, 

And ghding through them one by one, 
The moon walks up her path of stars- — 

The light upon her placid brow 

Eeceived from fountains unseen now. 

And happiness is mine to-night. 

Thus springing from an unseen fount, 

And breast and brain are warm with light, 
"With midnight round me on the mount — 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 159 

Its rays, like thine, fair Dian flow 
From far that "Western star below. 

Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 

The life thou gav'st flows yet i'l'om thee — 
And sun-hke, thou hast power to give 

Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 
Though wandering, as this moon above, 
I'm dark without thy constant love. 



A MOTHER'S first ministration for her infant is to 
-^ enter, as it were, the valley of the shadow of 
death, and win its life at the peril of her own. How 
different must an affection thus founded be from all 
others ! — Mrs, Sigourney, 



TTO language can express the power, and beauty, and 
^^ heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It 
shrinks not where man cowers, and grows stronger 
where man faints, and over the wastes of worldly fort- 
unes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity Like 
a star in heaven. — Chopin, 



160 M0THEE8 LOVE, 



THE COIS'YICT. 

These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio penitentiary. 

I'VE wandered far from thee, motlier, 
Far from my happy home ; 
I've left the land that gave me birth, 

In other chmes to roam ; 
And time, since then, has rolled its years 

And marked them on my brow ; 
Yet, I have often thought of thee — 
I'm thinking of thee now. 

I'm thinking on the day, mother, 

"When, at my tender side. 
You watch'd the dawning of my youth, 

And kissed me in your pride : 
Then brightly was my heart ht up 

With hopes of future joy, ^ 
While your bright fancy honors wove 

To deck thy darling boy. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 161 

I'm thinking of the day, mother, 

When with such anxious care. 
You lifted up your heart to heaven — 

Your hope, your trust, was there : 
Fond memory brings thy parting words, 

While tears roll'd down your cheek ; 
Thy long, last, loving look told more 

Than ever words could speak. 

I'm far away from thee, mother, 

]^o friend is near me now. 
To soothe me with a tender word 

Or cool my burning brow ; 
The dearest ties affection wove 

Are all now torn from me ; 
They left me when the trouble came : 

They did not love like thee. 

I'm lonely and forsaken iiow, 

Unpitied and unblest : 
Yet still I would not have thee know 

How sorely I'm distress'd. 



163 MOTHERS LOVE. 

I know you would not chide, mother, 
You would not give me blame ; 

But soothe me with your tender words, 
And bid me hope again. 

I would not have thee know, mother, 

How brightest hopes decay ; 
The tempter with his baleful cup 

Has dash'd them all away ; 
And shame has left its venom sting, 

To rack with anguish wild — 
Yet still I would not have thee know 

The sorrows of thy child. 

Oh ! I have wander'd far, mother, 

Since I deserted thee. 
And left thy trusting heart to break 

Beyond the deep, blue sea. 
O ! mother, still I love thee well. 

And long to hear thee speak; 
And feel again thy balmy breath 

Upon my careworn cheek. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 163 

But, ah! there is a thought, mother, 

Pervades my beating breast. 
That thy freed spirit may have flown 

To its eternal rest ; 
And while I wipe the tear away, 

There whispers in my ear 
A voice, that speaks of heaven and thee, 

And bids me seek thee there. 



i -MOTHER'S love, in a degree, sanctifies the most 
■^ worthless o^^^vmg.— Rosea Ballou, 



A MOTHEE is a mother stiU, 
^ The holiest thing alive. — Coleridge, 



i 1^T> if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
-^ love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and 
if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the 
world to him. — Washington Irving, 



164 MO TREES LOVE. 

EICH, THOUGH POOE. 

A. D. F. Randolph. 
rood of land in all the earth, 
No ship upon the sea, 
ITor treasures rare of gold or gems 

Do any keep for me : 
As yesterday I worked for hread, . 

So must I toil to-day ! 
Yet some are not so rich as I^ 
Kor I so poor as they. 

On yonder tree the sunlight fails. 

The rohins on the hough ; 
Still I can hear a merrier note 

Than he is warhling now; 
He's hut an Arah of the sky. 

And never lingers long; 
But o'erruns the livelong year 

With music and with song. 

Come gather round me, merry ones, 
And here as I sit down, 



MOTBEKS LOVE, m^ 

Witli shouts of laughter on me place 

A mimic regal crown. 
Say, childless king, would I accept 

Your armies and domain. 
Or e'en your crown, and never feel 

These httle hands again ? 

There's more of honor in their touch, 

And blessing unto me, 
Than kingdom unto kingdom joined 

Or navies on the sea ; 
So greater gifts by them are brought 

Than Sheba's queen did bring 
To him who at Jerusalem 

Was born to be a king. 

Look at my crown, and then at yours. 

Look in my heart and thine ; 
How do our jewels now compare — 

The earthly and divine ? i 

Hold up your diamonds to the light, 

Emerald and amethist ; 



166 MOTEEES LOVE. 

They're to those love-lit eyes- 
Those lips so often kissed ! 

" noblest Eoman of them all ; " 

That mother good and wise 
Who pointed to her little ones, 

The jewels of her eyes ; 
Four sparkle in my own to-day, 

Two deck a sinless brow ; 
How great my riches at the thought 

Of those in glory now. 

And still no rood of all the earth, 

Ko ship upon the sea, 
'Eo treasure rare of gold or gems, 

Are safely kept for me ; 
Yet I am rich — myself a king, 

And here is my domain ! 
Which only God shall take away 

To give me back again. 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 167 



MOTHEE'S WEE MAK. 

TWO violet eyes, intent and wise, 
This great world view with a grave surprise ; 
Gaze at it, master it, rule, if you can ! 
That is the problem — mother's wee man. 

Two sensitive ears, with unknown fears. 
Turn at each sound the darling hears ; 
'Tis a strange great world, but love is its plan, 
There is no danger — mother's wee man. 

Each tiny pink fist, fit but to be kissed. 

Waves hither and thither, wherever they list ; 

The right 'gainst the wrong, strike a blow when you can ! 

That is the battle — mother's wee man. 

Two delicate feet, all dimpled and sweet. 
To walk thi-s rough earth seem strangely unmeet ; 
Yet tread the path boldly, it is but a span, 
Life's little crossing — mother's wee man. 



168 MOTHERS LOVR 



THE THREE LITTLE CHAHIS. 

THEY sat alone by the bright wood fire, 
The gray-haired dame and the aged sire. 
Dreaming of the days gone by ; 
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, 
They both had thoughts they could not speak, 
And each heart uttered a sigh. 

For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
Three little chairs placed side by side 

Against the sitting-room wall ; 
Old-fashioned enough as there they stood, 
Their seat of flag and their frames of wood, 

With their backs so straight and tall. 

Then the sire shook his silvery head, 
And with trembling voice, he gently said, 

" Mother, these empty chairs ! 
They bring us such sad thoughts to-night ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 169 

We'll put them forever out of sight 

In the small, dark room upstairs." 

But she answered, " Father, no ; not yet ; 
For I look at them and I forget 

That the children are away ; 
The boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
With her apron on of checkered blue, 

And sit there every day. 

" Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts. 
And Willie his leaden bullets casts, 

While Mary her patchwork sews ; 
At evening the three child-like prayers 
Go up to God from these little chairs 

So softly that no one knows. 

" Johnny comes back from the billow deep ; 
Willie wakes up from the battle-field sleep 

To say ' good-night ' to me ; 
Mary's a wife and a mother no more, 



170 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

But a tired child whose play-time is o'er, 
And comes to rest at my knee. 

" So let them stand there, though empty now, 
And every time when alone we how 

At the Father's throne to pray, 
We'll ask to meet the children above 
In our Savior's home of rest and love, 

Where no child goeth away." 



A MOTHER would rather die than see her child 
ruined and disgraced ; and could mother-love save 
from the ways of sin, there would he but few travelers 
on the road that leads down to death. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 171 



MOTHER'S WAY. 

OFT within our little cottage, 
As the shadows gently fall, 
While the sunlight touches softly 

One sweet face upon the wall, 
Do we gather close together, 

Ani in hushed and tender tone, 
Ask each other's full forgiveness 

For the wrong that each has done ; 
Should you wonder at this custom 

At the ending of the day, 
Eye and voice would quickly answer, 

" It was once our mother's way." 

If our home be bright and cheery. 
If it hold a welcome true. 

Opening wide its doors of greeting 
To the many — not the few ; 

If we share our Father's bounty 
With the needy, day by day, 



112 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

'Tis because our hearts remember 
This was ever mother's way. 

Sometimes when our hearts grow weary 
Or our task seems very long ; 

When our burdens look too heavy, 
And we deem the right all v/rong, 

Then we gain a new, fresh courage, 
As we rise to proudly say : 

" Let us do our duty bravely. 

This was our dear mother's way.' 



» 



Thus we keep her memory precious, 

"While we never cease to pray. 
That at last when lengthening shadows 

Mark the evening of life's day. 
They may find us waiting calmly 

To go home our mother's way. 

— Anonymous. 



MOTHERS LOVK 173 



TWO GRAVES. 



^EYOKD the gate are two small graves, 
Just seen in this twilight hour ; 
One marked hy a costly marhle shaft, 
The other hy a single flower. 



'E'eath one, in a casket satin-lined, 

Is a little haby face, 
Round which the ringlets like pale spun-gold, 

Cluster thick 'mid the flowers and lace. 

In the other, in a coffin plainly made, 

WrapiDed up in spotless white, 
Is another child ; a precious pearl 

Hid away from a mother's sight. 

And now each day, in the twilight dim. 

Together the mothers weep ; 
Far apart in life — from mansion to cot — 

At the grave's dark door they meet. 



174 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

All o'er this earth, be we rich or poor, 

The mother's love is the same ; 
When the angel of death takes our darlings away, 

'Tis alike to us all — ^the pain. 



MOTKEES often die of grief for their children. 
Long watching by the side of the suffering one 
exhausts the energies and breaks the heart ; and when 
the child dies, she soon follows, and side by side the 
mother and child sleep in the silent grave. 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 175 



HOME IKFLUEI^CES. 

THERE is music in the word -home. To the old it 
brings a bewitching strain from the harp of mem- 
ory ; to the young it is a reminder of all that is near 
and dear to them. Among the many songs we are wont 
to listen to, there is not one more cherished than the 
touching melody of " Home, Sweet Home." 

"Will you go back with me a few years, dear reader, 
in the history of the past, and traverse in imagination 
the gay streets and gilded saloons of Paris, that once 
bright center of the world's follies and pleasures ? Pass- 
ing through its splendid thoroughfares is one (an En- 
gHshman) who has left his home and native land to view 
the splendors and enjoy the pleasures of a foreign country. 
He has beheld with delight its paintings, its sculpture, 
and the grand yet gracefal proportions of its buildings, 
and has yielded to the spell of the sweetest music. Yet, 
in the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was re- 
joicing most over the privileges he possessed, tempta- 
tions assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of 



176 MOtSEBS LOVE. 

its most bewitcliing garbs. He drank wildly and deeply 
of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought mad- 
ness. Eeason was overwhelmed, and he rushed out, 
all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or 
how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto un- 
known sea of guilt. 

The cool night air lifted the damp locks from his heat- 
ed brow, and swept with soothing touch over his flushed 
cheeks. Walking on, calmer, but no less determined, 
strains of music from a distance met his ear. Following 
in the direction the-sound indicated, he at length distin- 
guished the words and air. The song was well remem- 
bered. It was "Home, Sweet Home." Clear and 
sweet the voice of some English singer rose and fell on 
the air, in the soft cadences of that beloved melody. 

Motionless the wanderer listened till the last note 
floated away and he could hear nothing but the cease- 
less murmur of a great city. Then he turned slowly, 
with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the 
tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of 
song. 

The demon that dwells in the wine had fled ; and 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 177 

reason once more asserted her right to control. As the 
soft strains of " Sweet Home " had floated to his ear, 
memoiy brought np before him his own " sweet home." 
He saw his gentle mother, and heard her speak, while 
honest pride beamed from her eye, of her sou, iu whose 
nobleness and honor she could always trust; and his 
heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved 
such confidence. He remembered her last words of 
love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those 
dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their 
presence. Well he knew their pride in his integrity, 
and the tide of remorse swept over his spirit as he felt 
what their sorrow would be, could they have seen him 
an hour before. Subdued and repentant, he retraced 
his steps, and with this vow never to taste of the terri- 
ble draught that could so excite him to madness, was 
mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape 
from further degradation. The influence of home had 
protected him, though the sea rolled between. 

!N^one can tell how often the commission of crime 
is prevented by such memories. If, then, the spell of 
home is so powerful, how important it is to make it 



178 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home 
and smiling face does more to make good men and 
women than all the learning and eloquence that can 
be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in 
our language are " Mother, Home, and Heaven ;" and 
one might almost say the word home included them all ; 
for who can think of home without remembering the 
gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence ? And 
is not home the dearest name for heaven ? We think 
of that better land as a home where brightness will 
never end in night. Oh, then, may our homes on earth 
be the centers of all our joys ; may they be as green 
spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary 
of the cares and perplexities of life, and drink the clear 
waters of a love which we know to be sincere and al- 
ways unfailing. 

— Saturday Evening Post, 



MOTHERS LOVE, 179 



THE EOAD IS SO LOKESOME BETWEE:N. 

, Mary Riley Smith. 

WHEN the crickets chirp in the evening, 
And the stars flash out in the sky, 
I sit in my lonely door- way 

And watch the children go by ; 
I look at their fresh young faces, 
And hark to each merry word, 
Eor to me, a child's own language 
Is the sweetest e'er was heard. 

And so I sit in my dopr-way 

In the hour that I love the best. 
And think as I see them passing, 

My child will come with the rest ; 
Think, when I hear the clicking 

Of the little garden gate, 
My darling's hand is upon it — 

O, why has she come so late ? 

But the days have been slowly weaving 
Their warp of toil in my life; 



180 MOTHERS LOVE. 

The weeks have rolled on me their burden 
Of waiting and patience and strife ; 

The flowers that came with the summer 
Have finished their errand so sweet, 

And autumn is dropping her harvests 
Mellow and ripe at my feet. 

And yet my little girl comes not, 

And I think she has missed her way, 
And strayed from this cold, dark country 

To one of perpetual day. 
I think that the angels have found her. 

And, loving her better than we, 
Have begged the Good Father to keep her, 

Eight on through eternity. 

Perhaps. But I long to enfold her, 

To tangle my hand in her hair, 
To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, 

To hear her light foot on the stair. 
I am but a poor, selfish mother. 

And mother-hearts starve, though they know 



MOTHER'S LOVE. .181 

Their children are drinking the nectar 
From lilies in heaven that blow. 

Some day I am sure I shall find her, — 
But the road is so lonesome between, 
My spirit grows sick and impatient 

For a glimpse of the pastures so green. 
Till then I shall sit in the door- way, 
. In the hour that my heart loves best, 
And think when the children pass homeward, 
My child will come with the rest. 



I 



T is the mother who moulds the character and fixes 
the destiny of the child. 



183 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

THE OLD SOl^G. 

OH, sing again that dear old strain 
My mother sang to me, 
When holy rays of earlier days 

Gleamed through our threshold treei 
The sunset low, in purple glow, 

Crept o'er the sanded sill ; 
She lingered there, in that old chair — 
Mother ! I see thee still. 

The low-eaved roof, with mossy woof, 

And creepers trailing o'er : 
The story long, the dear old song, 

Beside that oaken door ; 
The eyes that shone, the melting tone 

Of that sweet voice still come. 
With silvered hair and plantive prayer — 

Blest memories of my home ! 

Long years have fled ; the vines are dead 
And withered that old tree. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 183 

And never more, beside that door, 

"Will mother sing to me, 
But golden gleams of hallowed themes 

"Will linger to the last ; 
I cherish still, with sacred thrill. 

The ashes of the past. 

Then sing again that dear old strain 

My mother sang to me. 
When holy rays of earlier davs ' 

Gleamed through our threshold tree. 









184 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

THE SWEETEST I^AME. 

Caleb Dunn. 

THE name of mother ! sweetest name 
That ever fell on mortal ear ! 
The love of mother ! Mightiest love 

Which Heaven permits to flourish here. 
Dissect a mother's heart and see 

The properties it doth contain — 
What pearls of love, what gems of hope— 
A mothers heart beats not in vain. 

The words of mother ! when they flew 

In love's true rhetoric from her lips, 
The meteor stars of sin and shame 

Are lost amid a bright eclipse ; 
And when we walk the glittering path 

Wherein temptations oft we see, 
Oh, then we realize how strong 

The power of mother's love can be. 

A mother's love ! it never wanes; 
What if her boy an ingrate seems? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The beauty of that wondrous love 
Around the thankless offspring beams ; 

Though in the path of shame he walks, 
Though crime hath driven him to the bowl, 

A mother's care can yet avail 

A mother's prayers may win his soul. 

"Wliat heart like mother's can forgive 

The 6f( repeated wrongs of youth ? 
What hand Hke hers can lead us back 

From sin to innocence and truth ? 
Oh, name of mother! sweetest name 

That ever fell on mortal ear ! 
Oh, love of mother! mightiest love 

That Heaven allows to flourish here ! 



Loo 



TT7HE:N" a mother forgives, she kisses the offense 
' » into everlasting forgetfulness. 



186 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



WE SHALL SLEEP, BUT NOT FOEEYEH. 

WIIEE^ we see a precious blossom 
That we tended with such care, 
Rudely taken from our bosom, 

How our aching hearts despair ! 
Round its little grave we linger, 

Till the setting sun is low, 
Feeling all our hopes have perished 
With the flower we cherished so. 

We shall sleep, but not forever. 
There will be a glorious dawn; 

We shall meet to part, no, never, 
On the resurrection morn i 



MOTHERS LOVE. 187 



WOMAN'S IlSTFLUEl^CE. 

— Catlierine E. Beecher. 
TTTOMA]^ has been but little aware of the high in^ 
' ' citement that should stimulate to the cultivation 
of her noblest powers. The world is no longer to be 
governed by jphysical force, but by the influence which 
mind exerts over mind. How are the great springs of 
action in the political world put in motion ? Often by 
the secret workings of a single mind, that in retirement 
plans its schemes, and comes forth to execute them only 
by presenting motives of prejudice, passion, self-inter- 
est or pride, to operate on other minds. 

J^oWy the world is chiefly governed by motives that 
men are ashamed to own. When do we find mankind 
acknowledging that their efforts in political hf e are the 
offspring of pride and the desire of self-aggrandize- 
ment, and yet who hesitates to believe that this is true ? 

But there is a class of motives that men are not 
only willing but proud to own. Man does not willinglj^ 
yield to force ; he is ashamed to own he can yield to 



188 MOTHERS LOVE, 

fear; he will not acknowledge his motives ©f pride, 
prejudice or passion. But none are unwilling to own 
they can be governed by reason^ even the worst will 
boast of being regulated by conscience, and where is 
the person who is ashamed to own the influence of the 
kind and generous emotions of the heart ? Here, then, 
is the only proper field for the ambition of our sex. 
"Woman, in all her relations, is bound to " honor and 
obey " those on whom she depends for protection and 
support, nor does the truly feminine mind desire to ex- 
ceed this limitation of heaven. But where the dictates 
of authority may ever control, the voice of reason and 
affection may ever convince and persuade ; and while 
others govern by motives that mankind are ashamed 
to own, the dominion of woman may be based on influ- 
ences that the heart is proud to acknowledge. 

And if it is indeed the truth that reason and con- 
science guide to the only path of happiness, and if 
affection will gain a hold on these powerful principles 
which can be attained in no other way, what high and 
holy motives are presented to woman for cultivating 
her highest powers ! The development of the respond- 



MOTHERS LOVE. 189 

ing fascinations of a purified imagination, the charms 
of a cultivated taste, the quick perceptions of an active 
mind, the power of exhibiting truth and reason by 
perspicuous and animated conversation and writing, 
all these can be employed by woman as much as by man. 
And with these attainable faculties for gaining influ- 
ence, woman has already received from the hand of 
her Maker those warm affections and quick susceptibil- 
ities which can most surely gain the empire of the 
heart. 

Woman has never waked to her highest destinies 
and holiest hopes. She has yet to learn the purifying 
and blessed influence she may gain and maintain over 
the intellect and affections of the human mind. 
Though she may not teach from the portico, nor thun- 
der from the forum, in her secret retirements she may 
form and send forth the sages that shall govern and 
renovate the world. Though she may not gird herself 
for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, she 
may enwrap herself in the panoply of heaven, and 
send the thrill of benevolence through a thousand 
youthful hearts. Though she may not enter the list in 



190 MOTHERS LOVE. 

legal collision, nor sharpen her intellect amid the pas- 
sions and conflicts of men, she may teach the law of 
kindness, and hush up the discords and conflicts of life. 
Though she may not be clothed as the ambassador of 
heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, as a secret 
angel of mercy she may teach his will, and cause to 
ascend the humble, but most accepted sacrifice. 



OWO:N'DEEFUL power ! how little understood,- 
Entrusted to the mother's mind alone, 
To fashion genius, form the soul for good, 
Inspire a West or train a Washington ! 



'TIYE^N' He, that died for us upon the cross, in the 
-^ last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was 
mindful of his mother, as if to teach us that this holy 
love should be our last worldly thought, the last point 
of earth from which the soul should take its flight for 
heaven. — Longfellow. 




A Kiss from my Mother made me a -jpsiintev—Bevj'cmin West. 



MOTHER 8 LOVB. 191 

"FOEGET ME E^OT." 

TIOEGET me not ! in accents mild 
J- My mother says, beloved child ; 
Forget me not, when far away 
Amidst a thoughtless world you stray ; 
Forget me not, when fools would win 
Your footsteps to the paths of sin ; 
Forget me not, when urged to wrong 
By passions and temptations strong ; 
Forget me not, when pleasure's snare 
Would lead you from the house of prayer. 
Forget me not, in feeble age. 
But let me then your thoughts engage, 
And think, my child, how fondly I 
Watched o'er your helpless infancy : 
Forget me not, when death shall close 
These eyehds in their last repose. 
And evening breezes softly wave 
The grass upon thy mother's grave : — 
Oh ! then, whate'er thy age and lot 
May be, my child, foeget me not ! 



193 MOTHER'S LOVE, 



A MOTHEE'S FAITH. 

— Anonymous. 

SHE loved you when the sunny light 
Of bliss was on your brow ; 
That bhss has sunk in sorrow's night, 
And yet she loves you now. 

She loved you when your joyous tone 

Taught every heart to thrill : 
The sweetness of that tongue is gone, 

And yet she loves you still. 

She loved you when you proudly stept, 

The gayest of the gay ! 
That pride the blight of time has swept, 

Unlike her love, away. 

She loved you when your home and heart 
Of fortune's smile could boast ; 

She saw that smile decay — depart — 
And then she loved you most. 



MOTHERS LOVE: 193 



A WOELD. 

rpHEEE is a world where no storms intrude, a haven 
-■- of safety against the tempests of life. A little world 
of joy and love, of innocence and tranquility. Sus- 
picions are not there, nor jealousies, nor falsehood 
with her double tongue, nor the venom of slander. 
Peace embraces it with outspread wings. Plenty 
broodeth there. When a man entereth it, he forget- 
eth his sorrows^ and cares, and disappointments; he 
openeth his heart to confidence, and to pleasure not 
mingled with remorse. This world is the well-ordered 
home of a virtuous and amiable woman. 



AMOTHEE'S love is indeed the golden link that 
binds youth to age; and he is still but a child, 
however time may have furrowed his cheek, or silvered 
his brow, who can yet recall, with a softened heart, 
the fond devotion, or the gentle chidings, of the best 
friend that God ever gives us. — Bovee. 



194 MOTHER 8 LOVE. 



THE MOTHEE'S HOPE. 

— Laura Blanchard. 

IS there, where the winds are singing 
In the happy summer-time, 
Where the raptured air is ringing 
With earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp and village chime ; 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Minglingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
As the laughter of a child? 

Listen, and be novf delighted, 

Morn hath touched her golden strings, 

Earth and sky their vows have plighted, 

Life and light are reunited, 
Amid countless carolings ; 

Yet, delicious as they are. 

There's a sound that's sweeter far — 

One that makes the heart rejoice 

More than all — the human voice ! 



MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 195 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer, 

Though it be a stranger's tone, 
Than the winds and waters dearer. 
More enchanting to the hearer. 

For it answereth his own. 
But of all its witching words, 
Sweeter than the songs of birds. 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers, 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Eustling leaves and silver showers — 

These ere long the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Einging on the whole year round ; 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard, 
Ere my child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 



196 MOTHERS LOVE. 

Ear of one wliose love is surer; 
Hers, the mother, the endurer 

Of the deepest share of pain ; 
Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 
Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after. 
Echoes of that infant laughter. 

Yes, a mother's large affection 

Hears, with a mysterious sense, 
Breathings that evade detection, 
Whispers faint, and fine inflection. 
Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honey'd tones untaught 
Heareth she, in loving thought, 
Tones that never thence depart. 
For she listens — with her heart ! 



D 



"NHAPPY is the man for whom his own mother 
has not made all other mothers venerable. — Rich' 



ter. 



MOTEEBS LOVE. m 



THE OLD HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 

— Louise Chandler Moulion. 

IT stands in a sunny meadow, 
The house so mossy and brown, 
"With its cumbrous old stone chimneys. 
And the gray roof sloping down. 

The trees fold their green arms round it. 

The trees, a century old, 
And the winds go chanting through them, 

And the sunbeams drop their gold. 

The cowslips spring in the marshes, 

And the roses bloom on the hill. 
And beside the brook on the pastures, 

The herds go feeding at will. 

The children have gone and left them. 

They sit in the sun alone. 
And the old wife's tears are falling, 
' As she harks to the well-known tone 



198 MOTHER 8 LOVE. 

That won her heart in her childhood, 
That has soothed her in many a care, 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 

She thinks again of her bridal — 
How, dressed in her robe of white. 

She stood by her gay young lover, 
In the morning's rosy light. 

Oh, the morning is rosy as ever. 
But the rose from her cheek is fled. 

And the sunshine still is golden. 
But it falls on a silvered head. 

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished. 
Come back in her winter-time. 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 

With the thrill of spring-time's prime. 

And looking forth from the window, 
She thinks how the trees have grown, 

Since clad in her bridal whiteness, 
She crossed the old door-stone. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. m 

Though dimmed her eye's bright azure, 
And dimmed her hair's young gold, 

The love in her girlhood plighted 
Has never grown dim nor old. 

They sat in peace in the sunshine. 

Till the day was almost done. 
And then, at its close, an angel 

Stole over the threshold stone. 

He folded their hands together — 
He touched their eyelids with balm. 

And their last breath floated upward, 
Like the close of a solemn psalm. 

Like a bridal pair they traversed 

The unseen, mystical road 
That leads to the beautiful city, 

" Whose builder and maker is God." 

Perhaps in that miracle country 
They will give her lost youth back, 

And the flowers of a vanished spring-time 
Will bloom in the spirit's track. 



^0 MOTEm'8 LOVM, 

One draught from the living waters 
Shall call back his manhood's prime, 

And eternal years shall measure 
The love that outlived time. 

But the shapes that they left behind them, 
The wrinkles and silver hair. 

Made holy to us by the kisses 
The angel had printed there. 

We will hide away 'neath the willows, 
"When the day is low in the west, 

Where the sunbeams cannot find them, 
Nor the winds disturb their rest. 

And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone, 
With its age and date to rise 

O'er the two who are old no longer 
In the Father's House in the skies. 



rpHE mother's heart is the child's schoolroom. 
-*- Beecher. 



MOTHER'S LOVB, 201 



OJSf THE THEESHOLD. 

A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER LEAYING HOME. 

— Anonymous, 

STAN'DIJS'G on the threshold, 
With her waking heart and mind, 
Standing on the threshold. 

With her childhood left behind ; 
. The woman softness blending 

With a look of sweet surprise 
For life and all its marvels 
That lights the clear blue eyes. 

Standing on the threshold, 

With light foot and fearless hand, ■ 
As the young knight by his armor 

In minster nave might stand ; 
The fresh red Hp just touching 

Youth's ruddy, rapturous wine. 
The eager heart all brave, pure hope, 

Oh, happy child of mine I 



202 M0TEEE8 LOVE. 

I could guard the helpless infant 

That nestled in my arms ; 
I could save the prattler's golden head 

From petty baby harms ; 
I could brighten childhood's gladness, 
, And comfort childhood's tears, 
But I cannot cross the threshold 

With the step of riper years. 

For hopes, and joys, and maiden dreams 

Are waiting for her there, 
Where girlhood's fancies "bud and bloom 

In April' s^ golden air ; 
And passionate love, and passionate grief. 

And passionate gladness lie 
Among the crimson flowers that spring 

As youth goes fluttering by. 

Ah ! on those rosy pathways 
Is no place for sobered feet ; 

My tired eyes have naught of strength 
Such fervid glow to meet ; 



MOTHEBS LOVE. 203 

My voice is all too sad to sound 

Amid the joyous notes 
Of the music that through charmed air 

For opening girlhood floats. 

Yet thorns amid the leaves may lurk, 

And thunder-clouds may lower, 
And death, or change, or falsehood bhght 

The jasmine in the bower. 
May God avert the woe, my child ; 

But, oh ! should tempest come. 
Remember by the threshold waits 

The patient love of home. 



WHAT arts for a woman ? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her 
throat 
Cling, strangle a little ! To sew by degrees. 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat! 
To dream and to dote. 

— Mrs. Browning's " Mother and PoetP 



204 MOTHER'S LOVE, 



MOTHER, THE STAE OF MY HOME. 

— Eliza Cook. 

EEMEMBEE the days when my spirit would turn 

From the fairest of scenes and the sweetest of song, 
When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, 

And the moments of pleasure for me were too long ; 
For one name and one form shone in glory and light, 

And lured back from all that might tempt me to 
roam. 
The festal was joyous, but was not so bright 

A.S the smile of a mother, the star of my home. 

T remember the days when the tear filled my eye, 
And the heaving sob wildly disturbed my young 
breast ; 
But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, 
And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to 
rest. 
The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes. 
The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come ; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 205 

But now let me rove the wide world as I may, 

There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ; 
I can rest amid strangers, and laugh with the gay — 

Content with the pathway where'er it may be — 
Let sorrow or pain fling their gloomiest cloud, 

There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save. 
For the rays that e'er led me are quenched by the 
shroud, 

And the star of my home has gone down in the grave. 



"niTT one thing on earth is better than a wife, — that 
-^ is a mother. — Leopold Schcefer, 



QUEEN OF THE WOELD. 

rpHE mother in her office, holds the key 

^ Of the soul ; and she it is who stamps the coin 

Of character, and makes the being who would be a 

savage 
But for her gentle cares, a Christian man ; 
Then crovvn her queen of the world. 



206 MOTHER 8 LOVE. 



MEMOKIES OF THE OLD XITCHEK 

— Mrs. 8. P. Snow. 

FAR back in my musings my thoughts have been cast 
To the cot where the hours of my childhood were 
passed. 
I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and hall, 
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. 
Its chairs and its table none brighter could be, 
For all its surroundings were sacred to me. 
To the nail in the ceihng, the latch on the door ; 
And I loved every knot of that old kitchen floor. 

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide, 

The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side. 

Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came puddings and 

pies, 
That fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes ; 
And then, too. Saint Mcholas, slyly and still, 
Came down every Christmas, our stockings to fill; 
But the dearest of memories I've laid up in store, 
Is the mother that trod that old kitchen floor. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 207 

Day in and day out, from morning till night, 
Her footsteps were busy, her heart always light ; 
For it seemed to me then that she knew not a care, 
The smile was so gentle her face used to wear. 
I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes 
When she told us the stories that children so prize ; 
They were new every night, though we'd heard them 

before 
From her lips, at the wheel, on the old kitchen floor. 

I remember the window where mornings I'd run 

As soon as the day break, to watch for the sun ; 

And I thought, when my head scarcely reached to the 

siU, 
That it slept through the night in the trees on the hill. 
And the small tract of ground that my eyes there 

could view 
Was all of the world that my infancy knew ; 
Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 
For a world in itself was that old kitchen floor. 

To-night those old visions come back at their wiU, 
But the wheel and their music forever arc still; 



208 MOTHERS LOVE. 

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, 
And the fingers that turned it lie mold'ring in clay ; 
The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas then. 
And the voices of children ring out there again ; 
The sun through the window looks in as of yore. 
But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen floor. 

I ask not for honor, but this I could crave — 
That when the lips speaking are closed in the grave. 
My children will gather their's round at their side. 
And tell of the mother that long ago died : 
'T would be more enduring, far dearer to me 
Than inscription on marble or granite could be, 
To have them tell often, as I did of yore. 
Of the mother that trod the old kitchen floor. 



Y the fireside still the light is shining, 
The children's arms around the parents' twining; 
From love so sweet, O who would roam ? 
Be it ever so homely, home is home. 

— Dinah Ihdoch Graik. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 209 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

— — Anonymous, 
i H ! here it is, that dear old place, 
-^ CJnchanged through all the years; 
How like some sweet, familiar face 

Mj childhood's home appears ; 
The grand old trees beside the door 

Still spread their branches wide ; 
The river wanders as of yore. 

With sweetly murmuring tide ; 
The distant hills look green and gay, 

The flowers are blooming wild, 
And everything looks glad to-day, 

As when I was a child. 

Eegardless how the years have flown, 

Half wondering I stand ; 

I catch no fond endearing tone, 

I clasp no friendly hand; 
14 



310 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

I think my mother's smile to meet, 

I list my father's call, 
I pause to hear my brother's feet 

Come bounding through the haU ; 
But silence aU. around me reigns, 

A chill creeps through my heart — 
'Eo trace of those I love remains, 

!ind tears unbidden start. 

"What though the sunbeams fall as fair ; 
What though the budding flowers 

Still shed their fragrance on the air, 

« 

Within life's golden hours ; 
The loving ones that cluster here 

These walls may not restore ; 
Voices that fill my youthful ear 

Will greet my soul no more ; 
And yet I quit the dear old place, 

With slow and lingering tread. 
As when we kiss a clay-cold face 

And leave it with the dead. 



MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 211 



MOTHEEHOOD. 

— Beecher. 

IE" the lowest and simplest forms of animal life 
it is the rule that the offspring have no relation 
to their parents, other than physical. There is no 
love, no recognition. The spawn of the fish covers 
the river and the fish knows nothing about it, and 
they are hatched and the fish don't know its offspring 
except to eat it up. As you ascend from the lower 
forms of parentage steadily there seems to be an 
increment in this direction, that the parent and the 
offspring have increasing relations one to the other. 
Take the birds — the fowls of the air and the fowls of 
the yard. There is very strong parental affection, but 
it is very narrow and simple. The hen that clucks 
round my door every day with her brood of fifteen 
chickens, will quarral and fight as bravely as if she 
were a lioness if you attack them openly ; but if you 
go in the night and take one from her and kill it or 
give it away, she don't miss it in the morning ; and if 



212 MOTHER' 8 LOVE. 

in the night you go quietly and abstract another, she 
doesn't know she is a bereaved mother. And so yon 
may reduce her to one chicken, and she goes on acting* 
as if she had control of the whole world. So that you 
see, while she has strong affection in one way, it is feo 
small, so narrow, so unrecognizing, that one by one 
you can diminish her household and she doesn't grieve. 
She misses nothing. If you go- further up you shall 
find that when you reach the mammals, or those that 
feed their young from their own bosom, a very strong 
development has taken place, bringing them nearer 
and nearer together. I^ot only is the lioness a lover 
of her whelp, but she is very sagacious about it. Go 
into the wood and take the cubs of a bear, and she will 
follow your footsteps far and near, and woe be to the 
man that has her young in his pouch if she overtakes 
him. She misses them, and mourns them if she can't 
find them. Take the calf away from the cow, and she 
goes lowing about day by day and week by week 
sometimes. She not only loves it while it is present 
with her — she misses it as the bird does not miss its 
little one. 



'MOTKER'8 LOVE. 213 

The sphere is enlarged when you reach the human 
family. You begin to find then that the scope of 
parental affection is enriched in variety and immensely 
enlarged. Even in the lowest savage nations the 
mother's love is something that rises superior as an 
angel in the midst of all the rude and coarse elements 
of life. 

And as the mind enlarges, so does the scope of 
parental affection and the imagination with which the 
mother engirts, as with bonds of light, the Httle infant. 
A civilized and a Christian woman! 'No poet, no phi- 
losopher, can tell what is the richness and f ruitfulness 
and wonder of the imagination that hovers over a 
Christian woman at the cradle. To her the star of the 
East comes again to stand even where the vouno- child 
lies. To her the wise men of the earth might well 
come bearing offerings and incense. To her again are 
renewed all the scenes of the sacred stable where the 
child lay. The cradle is her temple; the babe is her 
divinity, and whatever reason can and whatever fancy 
can, when both of them are stimulated by prof oundest 
love— whatever there is near or far, present or to 



314 MOTHERS LOVE. 

come, that love is woman's. " Mary kept these things 
in her heart and pondered them." The pondering of a 
mother, if it could be written — if there were an angelic 
reportorial hand to take the best thoughts and the sweet- 
est fancies, and the life of a mother's heart could be 
written in those early brooding days, it would shine fit 
to be read in the libraries of the heavenly world itself. 
A mother's love has all the stars of heaven shining at 
night down on it. Serving that little impotence, that 
little possibihty of the future, she asks no other reward 
than the joy of service; she asks nothing; she can't 
free herself from it. It wins her by the whole strength 
of her nature from pleasure, from honor, from society, 
from all rest, from the glory of the earth ; outwardly, 
from all that has been treasured by the accumulated 
wisdom and refinements of the years. They are nothing 
to her. The sum total of human experience, if it could 
be put together in some shining bauble, would seem to 
her as darkness compared with the luminous joy with 
which she serves the young immortal — her king, her 
little prophet, her httle priest, her httle god ! 

Human nature never comes so near the divine as 



MOTHER 8 LOVK 315 

when a royal woman pours out the full flood of her 
thought, and fancy, and love to the little unheeding, and 
to her as yet useless child. Where else is she so beautiful 
as when she sits in the center of this mystic circle, as 
when she sings to her babe or gazes silently as it feeds 
upon her bosom ? The stars have nothing so bright, 
and the heavens scarcely anything more pure and more 
lovely, than the heavenly love service of a mother to 
her httle one, helpless and unfashioned. 

Look for one single moment upon the power 
of the cradle, for all this love and outflowing of the 
divinest feehng of human nature was not meant to be 
expended merely as a luxury for the maternal bosom— 
there is meaning in it. It is one of the sources of the 
greatest power that exists on earth. The power of the 
cradle is greater than the power of the throne, greater 
than royalty in its diffusion and in its capacity of use- 
fulness — ten thousand times greater. Make me mon- 
arch of the cradles, and I will give to whosoever wiU 
the monarchy of the kingdoms and of the throne. 




216 MOTHER'S LOVE, 



HOME OF OUR CHILDHOOD. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

OME of our childhood ! How aiFection clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph wings ! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ; 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze, 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas ! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, 
For the heart's temple is its own blue sky. 



A MOTHER'S hearx, like primroses, opens most beau- 
tifully in the evening of life. 



-»• 





•«- 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 




MY MOTHER^S PHAYER. 



\-^ ^izi=|!5:i 


->. ^,-— h ^- 

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1 J' J^ J"--:!^ 


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wr ^ le 


-*-*^-^ »^ 


S — m — • — «« — 



1. As I wandered 'round the homestead, Many a dear familiar 

2. Tho' the house was held by strangers, All remained the same with- 

3. Quick I drew it from the rubbish, Covered o'er with dust so 




spot. Brought within my re-collection. Scenes I'd seemingly for- 
in. Just as when a child I rambled Up and down, and out and 
long: When, behold, I heard in fancy. Strains of one fa-mil -iar 




/?s 



1^=^ 



1^—^w^ 



SziS: 






S=!5 



-^—^ 



got. There, the orchard — meadow, yonder — Here the deep, old-fashioned 
in, To the gar - ret dark as-cending (Once a source of childish 
song, Oft - en sung by my dear mother To me in that trun-dle 




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rit. 



.fL^^jL^'t 



<N 



ft* ^ 1^ 



:^5=^ 



-^— ^ 



-^ — ^ 



i^zzatu^ 



well. With its old moss-covered bucket. Sent a thrill no tongue can tell, 
dread). Peering through the misty cobwebs. Lo! I saw my trundle bed. 
bed: [^Omit ] 

9,d Ending. PP 



va junaing. i^ i^j . i^ 1^^ 



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" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber. Holy an - gels guard thy bed." 



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See page 



LETTEEFEOM PHILIP PHILLIPS. 

WHEN Philip Phillips wrote giving permission to 
use "My Mother's Prayer," found on page 233 
of this book, he said : — 

" You have my permission to use the hymn from 

' Song Life,' as you request. 

" God bless the dear Christian mothers ot our land. 

Mine is a sainted one long since gone to glory. 

" But I remember her prayers which have and are 

still blessing me. 

Yours in faith and song, 

Philip Phillips." 



319 



220 MOTHERS DEATH. 



O^E BY OKE. 

f PHEY are gathering home from every land, 

J_ One by one, 

As their weary feet touch the shining strand. 

One by one ; 
Their brows are encased in a golden crown 
And their travel-soiled garments are all laid down, 
And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead 
Where the Lamb loveth his chosen to lead, 

One by one. 

Before they rest they pass through the strife, 

One by oner 
Through the river of aeath they enter life. 

One by one. 
To some the waves of the river a^-e still 
As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill ; 
To some the waters run darkly and wild. 
But all reach the home of the undefiled. 

One by one. 



CO 
-i 

(19 

O 

B 

CD 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 



221 



We, too, shall come to the river-side, 

One by one ; 
We are nearer its waters each even-tide, 

One by one. 
"We can hear the roar and the dash of the stream 
Ever and again through our life's deep dream ; 
Sometimes the waves all the banks o'erflow. 
Sometimes in light ripples the small waves go, 

One by one. 




222 MOTHER'S DEATH, 

MOTHEE IS DEAD. 

TEEAD softly ! bow the head, 
In reverend silence bow ! 
J^ o passing bell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

O change ! wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars } 
This moment there — so low 
In mortal prayer — and now 

Beyond the stars 1 

change ! stupendous change 1 

Here lies the senseless clod ! 

1 he soul from bondage breaks, 
The new immortal wakes — ■ 

"Walks with her God ! 

The long watches of the night are over, and she 
is gone ; gone from her earthly home ; gone from the 
society of those she loved ; gone to live with the dear 



MOTHERS DEATH. 333 

ones "over yonder," and with the angels. She was 
happiest when surrounded by her family and friends, 
but death called and she went away willingly. Part 
of her family had long since gone over, and were 
" waiting and watching " for her; and when the messen- 
ger came, she was ready to go. 

The night was dark and stormy without, but 
within there was a holy quiet, only disturbed by the 
heavy breathing of a dying mother and the sobs of 
weeping friends. We had watched and waited at her 
side for many long days and nights. We hoped and 
prayed that death might stay his hand and leave her 
with us, but day after day she seemed to care less for 
things of earth and more for those of heaven. We pa- 
tiently watched and prayed as the weary days and 
nights wore on, but the trial hour came at last, and we 
assembled around her bed to see her die. As she went 
out across the dark river, we tried in broken utterances 
to sing of the beautiful land, the sweet home of the 
soul — 

" I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, 
The far away home of the soul. 



224 MOTHERS DEATH. 

Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand 
While the years of eternity roll." 

Death halted not in his onward march, but with 
ruthless tread crushed our hearts, and laid hold on the 
mother that we loved ; and with a whispered good-night 
she fell asleep — 

" Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, 
From which none ever wake to weep." 

Morning dawned, but mother did not look upon 
the sunshine. Friends passed in and out, but she saw 
them not. She was shrouded for the grave, but saw 
not her white apparel. "We drew back the curtain to 
look upon the calm and quiet face, but she did not 
notice us. We called, but she could not answer. We 
wept bitter tears of grief, but she heeded not our sor- 
row. Then the coffin came, and friendly hands lifted 
the precious dust into the softly cushioned bed. 

" Soon shall we meet again — 

Meet ne'er to sever ; 
Soon will peace wreathe her chain 

Round us forever ; 
Our hearts will then repose 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 235 

Secure from worldly woes ; 
Our songs of praise shall close — 
Never — no, never." 

One more kiss ; once more let us press those lips 
that never deceived us ; those lips that always spoke 
our name in love. But they are cold and silent now. 
One kiss on those pale cheeks and marble brow. Fare- 
well, mother ; a long farewell — 

" Beyond the flight of time, 

Beyond the reign of death, 
There surely is some blessed clime. 

Where life is not a breath ; 
Nor life's affections transient fire, 
Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 

" There is a world above 

Where parting is unknown, 
A long eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here, 
Translated to that glorious sphere." 

And now the coflin is closed and the lid by kindly 
hands is made secure in its place. We turn from this 
scene and look upon the outer world. The fields are 



226 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

bright and green as ever, perhaps, but to us a gloom 
has settled down on all things earthly. She loved these 
scenes ; loved to watch the sun come up ; to look on 
this beautiful landscape ; to watch the trees moving in 
the wind. But these things will attract her no more. 
She will never look on them again. 

Here comes her pastor. " God bless you," he says, 
" your mother is safe now, safe at last, safe at home, safe 
in heaven. It is well. On the other shore she will be 
' waiting and watching ' for you." How often mother 
has directed us to that land that knows no sorrow ; and 
how well we remember her prayers and tears for us in 
other years. The first prayer our infant lips learned to 
utter she taught us to repeat. 

Lift the coffin gently, and carry it carefully. 
Mother goes out from her fondly cherished home never 
to return. From out this door others have gone to the 
grave. She followed them sadly weeping. How our 
number is growing less ; but few are left, and we, too, 
must soon follow. 

" Thus, star by star declines, 
Till all are passed away, 



MOTHERS DEATH. 327 

As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light." 

"What a lonely road, this, to the grave. Over it 

during the last few years the aged and the young have 

gone. Old age, with its gray hairs ; youth in its beauty, 

and childhood in its innocence, have gone this lonely 

way ; but it is mother that is going now. Here are her 

children and her relatives, and her many friends in this 

silent funeral march to the grave. Some day we, too, 

must go this way. Over this road must we be taken 

when we are dead. Friends will follow silently, sadly 

as we follow now, and then we will be laid in the silent 

tomb. Here are the graves. How often dear mother 

has visited this place, and how many tears have fallen 

for those she loved ! 

" Now her last labors done, 

Now the grave is won ; 

Oh, Grave, we come ; 
Seal up this precious dust- 
Land of the good and just, 

Take the soul home." 
Farewell, mother ; a long, a last, a sad farewell ; we 



228 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

leave thee here to rest. Long and unbroken will be 
this silent slumber. Spring, with its blooming flow- 
ers; autumn, with its harvest; and winter, with its 
stormy winds, will come and go, but still wilt thou 
sleep on. Age after age will roll by, and this quiet 
slumber will be unbroken. Time's eflacing fingers will 
wear the names from these marbles, and still wilt thou 
sleep on. One by one we too will come and lie dowm 
by thy side. But when the glorious resurrection morn 
shall come, as come it will, we shall together be caught 
up to meet our Lord in the air, coming in the clouds of 
heaven to gather his people home. Then our love shall 
be renewed again in that far ofl* land of light. 

" No chilling winds, nor poisonous breath, 

Can reach that healthful shore ; 
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, 

Are felt and feared no more." 

What a lonely place home is now. Everything 
about it reminds us of her. Here the room she occu- 
pied, the vines she trained, the garments she wore. 
Home can never be what it once was. Long months and 
years will we miss her who adorned it above all other 



MO THERMS LEA TH. 229 

ornaments. The garden paths, the pictures on the 
wall, the furniture, everything reminds us of mother — 

" There's a land far away mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time." 

And to that land we will direct our steps ; to that land 
mother has found her way. There they die no more. 
There friends long parted meet again. 

" ! our sainted mother, we will not deplore you 
as lost, for we are yet one, and shall forever he; for 
that hond which united us here shall exist in all its 
strength and vigor when the wheels of the universe 
shall stand still ; when every mountain shall have 
fallen, it shall remain unimpaired; when every law 
whose authority is acknowledged by material nature 
shall have been annulled, this law of love shall be in 
force." When every river has run dry and the sea is 
without a drop ; when the izja. and moon have been 
blown out and the last star has burned down ; when the 
watchfires of heaven have all died away and the uni- 
verse has rolled together as a scroll, then this family 
bond shall become immortal and die no more. A few 



230 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

more days and time witli us will have closed, and the 
things of earth will have passed away, and we will be 
at home. 

" Only waiting 'till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate, 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey." 

Hail, ye far off* lands of light ! Hail, ye moving 
millions that walk the plains of the 'New Jerusalem ! 
Hail, all hail ! mother dear, we are coming home. 



%S!^*lt I.' 



MOTHER'S DEATH, 231 

MOTHEELESS. 

Duff Porter 

WHAT is home without a mother ? 
Ah ! surely best they know, 
Where the days' long weary shadows 

Die with no sunset glow ; 
Where the pained ear aehes with waiting, 

But hears no answer sweet; 
Where the eyes grow dim with watching. 

The dear lost face to greet ; 
Where the children meet at twilight, 

Only the darkness dread, 
!N"o soft hand with fond caressing 

To soothe the troubled head ; 
Where no kiss with love's sweet healing, 

In silence of night, 
Like a benediction holy. 

Gives peace 'till morning light. 
Ah ! the dark wide gulf's deep yawning. 

The aching void unfilled ; 
Ah ! the silence drear, unbroken, 



232 MOTHER'S BEATS, 

By her voice never thrilled. 
Ah ! the midnight pall unlifted, 

The presence grim and cold, 
That have filled with gloom the places 

That she made bright of old. 
It is day without its sunshine, 

A June with roses dead ; 
It is summer without harvest, 

But blighted fields instead ; 
It is blackest wing of sorrow, 

Low brooding day by day, 
O'er the heart's most sacred yearning, 

While slow years pass away. 




MOTHER'S LEATB, 233 

MY MOTIIEE'S PEAYEE. 

AS I wandered 'round the homestead, 
Many a dear familiar spot, 
Brought within my recollection, 

Scenes I'd seemingly forgot. 
There, the orchard — meadow yonder — 

Here the deep, old-fashioned well, 
With its old-moss-covered hucket. 
Sent a thrill no tongue can tell. 

Though the house was held by strangers, 

All remained the same within, 
Just as when a child I rambled 

Up and down, and out and in; 
To the garret dark ascending 

( Once a source of childish dread). 
Peering through the misty cobwebs, 

Lo ! I saw my trundle-bed. 

Quick I drew it from the rubbish, 
Covered o'er v/ith dust so long, 



234 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

When, behold, I heard in fancy, 
Strains of one familiar song. 

Often snng by my dear mother 
To me in that trnndle-bed : 

" Hush, my dear, he still and slumber. 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

While I listen to the music 

Stealing on in gentle strain, 
I am carried back to childhood — 

I am now a child again ; 
'Tis the hour of my retiring. 

At the dusky even-tide ; 
l^ear my trundle-bed I'm kneeling. 

As in yore, by mother's side. 

Hands are on my head so loving. 
As they were in childhood's days ; 

I, with weary tones, am trying 
To repeat the words she says ; 

'Tis a prayer in language simple 
As a mother's lips can frame : 



MOTBER'S DEAIK. 235 

" Father, thou who art in heaven, 
Hallowed, ever, be thy name." 

Prayer is over — to my pillow 

With a good-night kiss I creep, 
Scarcely waking while I whisper, 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 
Then my mother o'er me bending, 

Prays in earnest words, but mild : 
"Hear my prayer, heavenly Father, 

Bless, oh, bless my precious child." 

Yet I am but only dreaming, 

E'e'er I'll be a child again. 
Many years has that dear mother, 

In the quiet grave-yard lain ; 
But her blessed, angel spirit 

Daily hovers o'er my head, 
Calling me from earth to heaven, 

Even from my trundle-bed. 



236 MO THEM'S DEATH, 

A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 

Mrs. Lydia A. Sigoumey. 

YOU'RE weary, my precious ones ; your eyes 
Are wandering far and wide; 
Think ye of her who knew so well 
Your tender thoughts to guide ! 
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fixed attention claim, 
Ah ! never from your hearts erase 
That blessed mother's name. 

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn. 

My youngest infant dove ; 
Come press your velvet cheek to mine 

And learn the lay of love ; 
My sheltering arms can clasp you ail, 

My poor deserted throng ; 
Cling as you used to cling to iier, 

Who sings the angel's song. 

Begin, sweet bird, the accustomed strain, 
Come warble loud and clear, 



MOTHERS DEATH. 237 

Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 

You're sobbing in my ear. 
Good-night, go say the prayer she taught 

Beside your little bed ; 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life. 
His care protect those shrinking plants, 

That dread the storms of strife ; 
But who upon your infant hearts 

Shall like that mother write ? 
Who touch the springs that rule the soul ? 

Dear smitten flock, good-night. 




238 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

Bishop Gilbert Haven, 

OE" one of tlie shelves of my library, surrounded by 
volumes of all kinds, on various subjects and in 
various languages, stands an old book, in its plain cov- 
ering of brown paper, unpr.epossessing to the eye, and 
apparently out of place among the more pretentious 
volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of the 
stranger it certainly has neither beauty nor comeliness. 
Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred by long use ; its 
pages, once white, have become yellow with age ; yet 
old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and 
most valuable book on my shelves. 'No other awakens 
such associations, or so appeals to all that is best and 
noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's 
Bible — companion of her best and holiest hours, source 
of her unspeakable joy and consolation. It was the 
light to her feet and lamp to her path. It was constantly 
by her side ; and, as her steps tottered in the advance 
pilgrimage of life, and her eyes grew dim with age, more 
and more precious to her became the well worn pages. 
One morning, just as the stars were fading into the 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 239 

dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed 
on beyond the stars, and beyond the morning, and en- 
tered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath— to look upon 
the face of him of whom the law and the prophets 
had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. 
And now, no legacy is, to me, more precious than that 
old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on its 
shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that 
is finished. When sometimes, from the cares and con- 
flicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary 
of the world and tired of men, that are so hard and 
selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings 
of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem 
to hear that book saying, as with the well remembered 
tones of a voice long silent, " Let not your heart be 
troubled, for what is your life ? It is even as a vapor." 
Then my troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the httle 
world that had grown so gieat, and so formidable, sinks 
into its true place again. I am peaceful. I am strong. 
There is no need to take down the volume from 
the shelf, or to open it. A glance of the eye is 
sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- 



240 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is 
otherwise; hours in hfe when some deep grief has 
troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over 
the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a 
comfort to take down that old Bible and search its 
pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the origi- 
nal languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the 
critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him 
for the study of the Scriptures are laid aside ; and the 
plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken 
from the shelf. 




MOTHERS DEATH, 241 

01^ THE RECEIPT OF MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

William Cowper. 

OTHAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ;" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortahze, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic chain 
To quench it), here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrance of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ! 
And, while that face renews my failing grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 



243 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

Mj mother ! when I learn' d that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ! 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch'd even then, life's journey just hegun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss; 
Ah, that maternal smile, it answers, " Yes." 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy funeral ,day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ; 
But was it such? It was. "Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are sounds unknown ! 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 

Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern. 
Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
"Wliat ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 243 

And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; 
By expectation ev'rj day beguil'd, 
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child, 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learn'd at last sub]?aission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, 

Children not thine, have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 

And where the gard'ner Eobin, day by day. 

Drew me to school along the public way, 

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 

'Tis now become a history little known. 

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 

Short liv'd possession ! but the record fair 

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there. 

Still outlives many a storm, that has eflac'd 

A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 



244 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Thy morning "bounties, ere I left my home, 

The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; , 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 

ISTe'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 

That humor interpos'd too often makes ; 

All this still legible in mem'ry's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

li^ot scorn'd in heav'n, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the houi's, 

When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, 

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 

I prick' d them into paper with a pin, 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst softly speak and stroke my head, and smile). 

Could those few pleasant days again appear. 



MOTHER'S DEATH, 345 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 

I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 

Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might, — 

But no — what here we call our life is such, 

So little to be loVd, and thou so much, 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean cross'd), 
Shoots into port at some well-haven' d isle, 
Wliere spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 
And thy lov'd consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side ; 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 



246 MOTHERS DEATH. 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current^s thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course; 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth, 
But higher far my proud pretentions rise — . 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, nor sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liVd my childhood o'er again ; ^ 
To- have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'er to soothe me left. 



MOTHERS DEATH, 247 



BAPTISM OF AI^ IKFATsTT AT ITS MOTHEE'S 

FimERAL. 

Mrs. Lydia A. Sigourvcy. 

WHEIS'CE is that trembling of a father's hand, 
Who to the man of God doth bring this babe, 
Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice 
That uttereth o'er its brow the triune name, 
Falter with sympathy ? And most of all, 
Why is yonder coffin lid a pedestal 
For the baptismal font. 

And again I ask — 
But all the answer was those gushing tears 
Which stricken hearts did weep, 

For there she lay — 
The fair young mother in that coffin bed, 
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat, 
With trembling tenderness to every touch 
Of love, or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 



248 MOTHERS DEATH. 

THE OLD AEM-CIIAIR. 

Eliza Cook. 

ILOYE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs ; 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there ; 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear, 

To gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live : 

She told me shame would never betide 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day. 

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray ; 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 249 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped ; 
My idol was scattered, my earth star fled ; 
I learn' d how much the heart can bear. 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died. 

And memory flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops steal down my cheek ; 

But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear 

My soul from my mother's old arm-chair. 




250 



MOTHERS DEATH. 



THE DYmG MOTHER. 

LAY the gem upon my bosom, 
Let me feel the sweet warm breath. 
For a strange chill o'er me passes, 
And I know that it is death. 

I would gaze upon the treasure, 

Scarcely given, ere I go ; 
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers 
Wander o'er my cheek of snow. 



I am passing through the waters, 

But a blessed shore appears ; 
Kneel beside me, husband dearest, 
Let me kiss away thy tears. 

"Wrestle with thy grief, my husbandy 

Strive from niidnight until day. 
It may leave an angel's blessing 
When it vanisheth away. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 251 

Lay the gem upon my bosom, 

'Tis not long she can be there i 
See ! how to my heart she nestles, 
'Tis the pearl I love to wear. 
If in after years, beside thee 
Sits another in my chair. 
Though her voice be sweeter music. 
And her face than mine more fair ; 

If a cherub calls thee " father," 
J^'ar more beautiful than this, 
Love thy first-born, my husband ! 
Turn not from the motherless. 

Tell her sometimes of her mother — 

You can call her by my name ; 
Shield her from the winds of sorrow, 
If she errs, gently blame ! 

Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, 

I will answer if she calls, 
And my breath shall stir her ringlets, 



252 



MOTHER'S death: 



When mj voice in blessing falls ; 
Her soft black eye will brigbten, 
And wonder wbence it came ; 
In her heart when years pass o'er her, 
She will find her mother's name. 




MOTHER'S DEATH, 253 

TO MOTHER. 

Emanuel Vitilas Scherb,from Switzerland, 

FULL twenty years have passed away, 
(They seem now but a single day) 
Since last I saw thee, mother. 

But I was then a wayward child 
And very young, and very wild, 

Alas ! thou knowest it, mother ; 
And high my passions wine did foam, 
I could no longer stay at home, 
I wanted through the world to roam, 

Away from thee, dear mother. 

I knew not then what now I know — 
That through the world, where'er you go, 

You find no second mother ; 
I thought then in my foolish mind, 
"With wild romantic notions blind, 
That everywhere I was to find 
Human hearts as warm and kind 



254 MOTHERS DEATH. 

As the one I left behind — 

As thine, thou kindest mother. 

And so I rushed into the world, 
By stormy, fiery passions hurled 

Away from thee, dear mother. 
And on the whirlwind did I ride, 
Without a goal, without a guide, 
Wandering far and wandering wide. 
And always farther from thy side — 

Thy side, my blessed mother. 

I roamed and roamed the world around, 
But what I sought I never found, 

I never found it, mother. 
I sought for nothing more nor less 
Than an ideal happiness, 
Sc ught Paradise in the wilderness, 

And could not find it, mother, 

I sought a heart, I sought a soul, 
I sought a love intense and whole, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 255 

A deathless love, motlier ! 
I sought for glory's stainless shrine, 
I sought for wisdom's drossless mine. 
Sought men and women all divine, 

And never found them, mother. 

And worried by the endless race. 
And sickened by the fruitless chase. 

Old, cold, and faint, mother ! 
"With breaking heart and darkened eye, 
I bade my soaring hopes good-by, * 
And weary both of earth and sky, 
I laid me down, and yearned to die, 

To die and rest, mother ! 

But he whose name be ever blest, 
"Who loves us more and knows us best, 

Took pity on me, mother ; 
And from his own effulgence bright, 
He sent imparting strength and sight, 
A quickening ray of heavenly light 

And peace — his peace, mother ! 



256 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

And now life's stormy days are past, 
My heart at last, at last 

Has found its haven, mother. 
By wild desires no more distrest, 
No passion now can heat my breast, 
Save one which has outlived the rest, 
The earliest, deepest, and the best, 

My love to thee, dear mother. 

But thou hast left this vail of tears. 
And winged thy way to better spheres, 

Far from thy child, mother ! 
The boundless gratitude I owe. 
The heart's warm love I fain would show, 
The tender care I should bestow, 
My thousand debts of long ago — 
I cannot pay them here below, 

I cannot pay them, mother. 

But thou so gentle, and so mild, 
Thou wilt not spurn thy erring child, 
Thou wilt forgive mCj mother. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 257 

Behold the days are running fast, 
I'm with the old already classed, 
Soon will the darksome vail he passed ; 
Then comes the hour, when at last. 
My spirit arms around thee cast, 
I shall repay thee, mother. 



MY MOTHER. 



ALAS, how little do we appreciate a mother's tender- 
ness while living ! How heedless are we in youth 
of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she is 
dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the 
world come withering to our hearts; when we ex- 
perience how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few 
love us for ourselves, how few will hefriend us in our 
misfortunes, then we think of the mother that loved us, 
and to her our hearts turn yearningly. 



358 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

MY TRUKDLE-BED. 

R. M. Streettr. 

AS I rummaged through the attic, 
Listening to the falling rain 
As it pattered on the shingles 

And against the window pane, — 
Peering over chests and hoxes. 

Which with dust were thickly spread. 
Saw I in the farthest corner 
What was once m.y trundle-hed. 

So I drew it from the recess 

Where it had remained so long, 
Hearing all the while the music 

Of my mother's voice in song. 
As she sung in sweetest accents 

What I since have often read : 
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber. 

Holy angels guard thy bed// 

As I listened, recollections 

That I thought had been forgot, 



MOTHER'S DEATH, 259 

Came witli all the gush of memory. 

Bushing, thronging, to the spot ; 
And I wandered back to childhood^ 

To those merry days of yore, 
When I knelt beside my mother, 

By this bed upon the floor. 

Then it was with hands so gently 

Placed upon my infant head. 
That she taught my lips to utter 

Carefully the words she said. 
!N'ever can they be forgotten, — 

Deep are they in memory driven : 
" Hallowed be thy name, 0, Father ; 

Father ! thou who art in Heaven." 

This she taught me ; then she told me 

Of its import, great and deep ; 
After which I learned to utter, 

" JSTow I lay me down to sleep." 
Then it was with hands uplifted 

And in accents soft and mild, 



260 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

That my mother — " Our Father, 
Bless, 0, bless my precious child ! " 

Years have passed, and that dear mother 

Long has slumbered, 'neath the sod, 
And I trust her sainted spirit 

Hevels in the home of God. 
But that scene at summer twilight 

itTever has from memory iBled, 
And it comes in all its freshness 

When I see my trundle-bed. 




MOTHER'S LEATB. 261 



ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. 

AT length, then, the tenderest of mothers is gone ; 
Her smiles, her love, accents, can glad thee no 
more; 
That once cheerfal chamber is silent and lone, 
And for thee all a child's precious duties are o'er. 

Her welcome at morning, her blessing at night, 
No longer the crown of thy comforts can be ; 
And the friend seen and loved since thine eyes first saw 

light, 
Thou canst ne'er see again ; thou art orphaned like me. 



M 



"ORE severing of tender cords, and more wounds 
that never heal, result from the mother's death 
than from any other event that can take place in any 
home. 



262 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

MOTHER'S YACAl^T CHAIR. 

T. DeWitt Talmage. 

I GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the 
mother's chair. She had so many cares and 
trouhles to soothe that it must have rockers. I remem- 
ber it well. It was an old chair and the rockers were 
almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair 
had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise 
as it moved, hut there was music in its sound. It was 
just high enough to allow us children to put our heads 
into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited 
all our hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was. 
It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely 
different. You ask me how ? I cannot tell, but we all 
felt it was different. Perhaps there was about this chair 
more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when we 
had done wrong. When we were wayward father 
scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. 
In the sick day of children other chairs could not keep 
awake, that chair always kept awake — ^kept easily awake. 
That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all those word- 



MOTHER'S DEATH, ^63 

less songs which mothers sing to their children. Songs 
in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influ- 
ences are combined. That old chair has stopped rock- 
ing for a good many years. It may be set up in the loft 
or garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. 

When at night you went into that grog-shop to get 
the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that 
said: ''My son, why go in there?" and louder than the 
boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying : " My 
son, what do you here ?" And when you went into the 
house of sin, a voice saying : " What would your 
mother do if she knew you were here?" and you were 
provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with 
superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with 
your own thoughts, and you went home, and you went 
to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than a 
voice said : " What, a prayerless pillow ?" Man ! what 
is the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's 
rocking-chair. " Oh, pshaw," you say, " there is noth- 
ing in that. I'm ^yq hundred miles off from where I 
was born. I'm three thousand miles off from the 
Scotch kirk whose bell was the first music I ever 



m MOmMR'S hEATB. 

heard." I cannot help that. You are too near your 
mother's rocking-chair. " Oh," you say, " there can't 
be anything in that; that chair has been vacant a 
great while." I cannot help that. It is all the 
mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that mother's vacant 
chair. It whispers. It speaks. It carols. It mourns. 
It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went 
ofl" and broke a mother's heart, and while he was away 
from home his mother died, and a telegram brought 
the son; and he came into the room where she lay, 
and looked upon her face and cried out : " 0, mother, 
mother, mother, what your life could not do your death 
has eifected! This moment I give my heart to God !" 
And he kept his promise. Another victory for the va- 
cant chair. 



UOTBms DEAm. 565 



r HE MOTHEE PERISHING IK A SFOW-STOEM. 

Seha Smith. 

THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
And pathless was the dreary wild, 
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night, 
A mother wandered with her child ; 
As through the drifting snoAV she passed, 
Her babe was sleeping on her breast. 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifting snow ; 

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone; 

" Oh, God !" she cried in accents wild, 

" If I must perish, save my child." 

She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapped the vest, 

And smiled to think the babe was warm ; 



266 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

"With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveler went by 

And saw her 'neath a snowy vail, 

The frost of death was in her eye, 
Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; 

He moved the robe from off the child, 

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled. 



MOTHER'S DEATH, 267 



BEAD MOTHER. 

But when I go 
To my lone bed, I find no mother there; 
And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught 
Or when I read the Bible that she loved, 
Or to her vacant seat in church draw near, 
And think of her, a voice is in my heart, 
Bidding me early seek my God, and love 
My blessed Savior, and that voice is hers ; 
I know it is because these were the words 
She used to speak so tenderly, with tears, 
At the twilight hour, or when we walked 
In the spring among rejoicing birds, 
Or peaceful talked beside the winter hearth 



m MOmElCS DEA TR 



THE DEATH-BED. 

Thomas Hood. 

WE watched her breathing through the night, 
Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of hfe 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 
• So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 
To eke her being out. 

> 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

Eor when the morn came dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 269 



DEATH SCEOT:. 

DYTN'G, still slowly dying, 
As the hours of night rode by ; 
She had lain since the light of sunset 

Was red on the evening sky, 
'Till after the middle watches, 

As we softly near her trod, — 
When her soul from its prison fetters 
Was loosed by the hand of God. 

One moment her pale lips trembled 

With the triumph she might not tell. 
As the si2:ht of the life immortal 

On her spirit's vision fell ; 
Then the look of rapture faded. 

And the beautirul smile was faint, 
Aa that in some convent picture 

On the face of a aylng saint. 

And we felt in the lonesome midnight, 
As we sat by the silent dead, 



I'hebe Carey. 



270 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

What a light on the path going downward 
The feet of the righteous shed ; 

When we thought how with faith unshrinking 
She came to the Jordan's tide, 

And taking the hand of the Savior, 
Went up on the other side. 



LIPS I HAVE KISSED. 

LIPS I have kiss'd, ye are faded and cold ; 
Hands I have pressed, ye are covered with mould ; 
Form I have press'a, thou art crumbling away, 
And soon on thy bosom my breast I will lay. 
Friends of my youth, I have witnessed your bloom ; 
Shades of the dead, I have wept at your tomb ; 
Tomb, I have wreaths, I have flowers for thee. 
But who will e'er gather a garland for me ? 



MO THEE S DEATH. 271 



LEO:S BY WHITTIER. 

AOT) yet, dear heart, remembering thee, 
Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortahty, 

What change*^ can reach the wealth I hold, 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 

And while in life's late afternoon, 
When cool and long the shadows grow, 

I walk to meet the night that soon 
Shall shape and shadow overflow, 

I cannot feel that thou art far, 
"When near at need the angels are ; 

And when the sunset gates unbar, 
Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 

And white against the evening star. 
The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 



272 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



A MOTHEE'S DEATH. 

DEATH comes an unsought guest to every board, 
and at his spectral bidding some loved one goes 
forth to his mysterious home. 

Time and philosophy may teach resignation unto 
hearts made desolate by his coming ; but they can never 
fill the vacancy therein when she that was our mother 
no longer casts a halo about our darkened hearth. 
A mother's place — so loved — so worshiped — once 
empty, must be forever so. A breast once panged by a 
mother's death no medicine can reach with healing. 'No 
man however scarred, no heart however hardened, can 
forget the gentle being who gave him life. A mother 
is truly our guardian spirit upon earth ; her goodness 
shields and protects ; she walks with our infancy, our 
youth and maturing age, ever sheltering us with her 
absorbing love, and expiating our many sins with her 
blessed prayers. And when our mother, with all her 
burden of love, her angelic influence, her saintly care, 
ceases her beauteous life, how much we lose of home 



MOTHERS DEATH. 273 

of happiness, of heaven, no one can reckon ; for our 
mother was none but ours, and ive only can know how 
holy she was, how sacred her memory must ever be. 

But may we now borrow consolation from the 
thought that our loss is heaven's gain ; that surely her 
angel spirit watches over us, erasing with grateful tears 
the records of our sins, and making easy our path to 
her, with blessed and blessing prayers. 



MOTHER'S LOYE CA]^:N'0T DIE. 



I /F OTHER'S love is the purest and the best of any 



M 



love born on earth, and it is as unselfish and un- 
dying as eternity's years. Oth^r loves may die, mother- 
love never will, never can. 



274 MOTHERS DEATH, 



THE DYmG MOTHER. 

FRESH in our memory, as fresh 
As yesterday, is yet the day she died. 
We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees 
In fervent supphcation to the Throne 
Of mercy, and performed our prayers with sighs 
Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 
Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe for heaven. 

The room I well remember, and the bed 
On which she lay ; and all the faces, too, 
That Crowded dark and mournfully around. 

But, better still, 
I do remember, and will ne'er forget, 
The dying eye ; that eye alone was bright, 
And brighter grew as nearer death approached. 
" God help my children !" we heard her say, and heard 
E'o more. The angel of the covenant 
Was come ; and, faithful to his promise, stood 
Prepared to walk with her thro' death's. dark vale. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 275 

And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, 
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
With many tears, and closed mthout a cloud ; 
They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
]N^ot down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured among the temples of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven. 

—Pollok. 



" 'TWILL ALL BE EIGHT IE THE MOEJ^rN'G." 

IT will all be right in the morning, 
I murmured then through the night, 
As I watched her heavily breathing, 
And longed for the coming light. 
It came with its golden sunshine. 

And I turned to my mother's bed, 
To kiss her lips as a welcome. 
But I found my mother dead. 



276 MOTHER'S DEA TH, 



TO MY DEAD MOTHEE. 



Otway Curry. 

SLEEP on, the cold and heavy hand 
Of death has stilled thy gentle breast ; 
ITo rude sound of this stormy land 

Shall mar thy peaceful rest ; 
Undying grandeur round thee close 
To count the years of thy repose. 

A day of the far years will break 

On every sea, and every shore 
In whose bright morning thou shalt wake, 

And rise to sleep no more — 
No more to moulder in the gloom 
And coldness of the weary tomb. 

I saw thy fleeting life decay, 

Even as a frail and withering flower, 

And vainly strove to while away 
Its swiftly closing hour ; 

It came with many a thronging thought 

Of anguish ne'er again forgot. 



MOTHER'S DEATH, 277 

In life's fond dreams I have no part— 

1^0 share in its resounding glee ; 
The musings of my weary heart 

Are in the grave with thee ; 
There have been bitter tears of mine 
Above that lowly bed of thine. 

It seems to my fond memory now 

As it had been but yesterday ; 
When I was but a child, and thou 

Didst cheer me in my play ; 
And in the evening still and lone 
Didst lull me with thy music's tone. 

And when the twilight hours began, 
And shining constellations came. 

Thou bid'st me know each nightly sun 
And con its ancient name ; 

For thou hadst learned their love and light 

With watching in the tranquil night. 

And then, when leaning on thy knee, 
I saw them in their grandeur rise, 



278 MOTHEBS DEATH. 

It was a joy in sooth to me ; 

But now the starry skies 
Seem holier grown, and doubly fair, 
Since thou art with the angels there. 

The stream of life with hurrying flow, 
Its course may bear me swiftly thro' ; 

I grieve not, for I soon shall go, 
And by thy side renew 

The love which here for thee I bore. 

And never leave thy presence more. 



MOTIIER-LOYE UJ^DYOTa. 

WHEIT rolling years shall cease to move, when the 
days of all men have been numbered, and when 
the earth shall have wandered away through space and 
Deen lost, mother-love will still live on as undying as 
the throne of God. 



MOTHER'S DEATTT. 279 



O^sT DREAME^G OF MY MOTHER. 

STAY, gentle shadow of my mother, stay; 
Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep. 
Ye faithless slumbers, Hee not thus away 

And leave my wistless eyes to wake and weep. 
Oh ! I was dreaming of those golden days. 

When, "Will" my guide, and " Pleasure" all my aim, 
I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze. 

And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name. 
Those scenes are fled, — and thou, alas, are fled, 

Light of my heart and guardian of my youth. 
Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed. 

To aggravate the pangs of waking truth ; 
Or if kind sleep these visions will restore, 

O let me sleep again and never waken more ! 

— LitteTs Living Age. 



280 MOTHER'S DEATH, 



EECOLLECTIOI^S. 

IT was thirty years since my mother's death, when, 
after a long absence from my native village, I stood 
beside the sacred mound beneath which I saw her 
buried. Since that mournful period a great change 
had come over me. My childish years had passed 
away, and with them my youthful character. The 
world was altered, too ; and as I stood at my mother's 
grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same 
thoughtless creature whose cheeks she had so often 
kissed in an excess of tenderness. 

But the varied events of thirty years had not 
effaced the remembrance of that mother's smiles. It 

seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday, as if the 
blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was yet in 
my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood 
were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had 
it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed 



MOTHERS DEATH. 281 

would have been gentle and refreshing. The circum- 
stance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it 
now pains my heart. 

My mother had been ill a long time, and I became 
so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice that I 
was not frightened by them, as children usually are. 
At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but when day 
after day I returned from school and found her the 
same, I began to believe that she would always be 
spared to me ; but they told me she would die. 

One day when I had lost my place in the class, and 
had done my work wrong, I came home discouraged and 
fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was 
paler than usual, but met me with the same gentle 
smile that always welcomed my return. Alas ! when I 
look back through the lapse of thirty years, I think my 
heart must have been stone not to have been melted by 
it. She requested me to go down stairs and bring her 
a drink of water. I pettishly asked why she did not 
call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, 
which I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred 



282 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

years old, she said : " Will not my child bring a drink 
of water to lier poor sick mother ?" 

I went and brought the water, but I did not do it 
kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was 
wont to do, I set the water down quickly and left the 
room. After playing about for a short time I went to 
bed without bidding my mother good-night. But when 
alone in my room in darkness, and in silence, I remem- 
bered how pale she looked when she said : " Will not 
my child bring her mother a drink of water ?" I could 
not sleep. I stole into her room to ask forgiveness. 
She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me I 
must not waken her. I did not tell any one what 
troubled me, but stole back to my room, resolved to rise 
early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for 
my conduct. 

The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and 

hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's 
chamber. She was dead ! When I touched the hand 
that used to rest upon my head in blessings, it was so 
cold that it made me start. I bowed down by her side 
and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 283 

then I wislied to die and be buried with ber ; and old as 
I now am, that event is one of tbe bitterest recollec- 
tions of my life ; and while I live, I shall never cease 
to regret ic. When I think of mother ; when I think 
of her death, of her grave, or of her home in heaven, 
this careless, thoughtless, and cruel conduct of mine is 
always present, ^o act of my life has given me so 

much pain. • 

— Anonymous. 




384 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DEATH OF EYE. 

George Waterman, Jr. 
Jf M WAS evening tide. The fiery charioteer 

JL Who guides the courses of the king of day, 
Had urged his ascent up the azure space 
Which hnks the orient with the distant west, 
Until his burning wheels a moment paused 
Upon its utmost height. A moment more, 
And the descending archway mirrored forth 
The brilliant glories of the irradiant king ! 
And now, before he reached the utmost bound 
Which severs day from night, he paused again 
And cast a lingering look on scenes behind. 
Beneath a bower, near Eden's eastern gate, 
Around whose leafy side in festoon hung 
The richest, sweetest flowers of orient birth. 
Reclined the dying mother of mankind. 
The constant partner of her every joy, 
And (since that fatal day, when perfect bliss 
Fled their polluted bower and sped his way 



MOTHERS DEATH. 285 

To holier ecenes beneath the throne of God) 

The constant partner of her every woe, 

Beside her knelt. Her children, too, were there ; 

I^ot all, for one was not. Long since his voice 

Had ceased to mingle with their pious song, 

As with the fading light of evening sky 

They offered up their joyous notes of praise 

To him who rules the skies. One other still 

Was absent from that lonely group, which thus 

In silence gathered round the mossy couch, 

To view a sight on earth unseen before — 

A mother's dying hour. That other one 

!N^ow roamed a stranger to that holy peace 

Which springs from pardoned sin, with Heaven's broad 

seal 
Of reprobation on him. 

Some ere this 
Had gazed upon the pallid corpse of him 
Whose blood was by an elder brother shed ; 
Then nature, tremblingly, stood aghast; and God, 
Before whose face a murdered brother's blood 
For retribution cried, in anger spoke, 



286 MOTHEES DEATH. 

And midst the gloom his vengeful powers displayed. 

N^ow all was calm. Serene the sun declined, 

And naught except the breeze's silken hand 

Disturbed the ringlets on her fainting brow ; 

But soon a tremLllng seized that gentle form — 

A trembling passed through every nerve and limb — 

Unwonted paleness sat upon her face, 

And shortened breath spoke dissolution nigh. 

" Companion of my life," at length she said, 
" The hour is come. The oft-lamented doom. 
Which by my guilt we both incuiTed, now waits 
Its consummation. Speak to me, once more, 
Forgiveness of the rash and dreadful deed 
"Which exiled us from Eden's blissful shades 
To wander here and reap the bitter fruit 
Of our rebellious act." Sudden she ceased; 
For thought of joys for disobedience lost. 
And pain and death by her own hand incurred; 
And more, the hatefuhiess of sin itself, 
Her utterance sealed. A look of tenderest love 
From Adam's moistened eye, her sorrows calmed, 
While from around full many a tear bespoke 



MaTSERS DEATH. 287 

The strength and tenderness of filial love. 

" My children," she resumed, " you too have heard 

The tragic tale of Eden's shameful fall. 

'Tis woeful for a mother thus to name 

The sad inheritance she leaves to those 

She holds most dear. For you I still must grieve ; 

Yet weep not thus for me. Even now 

A shining seraph, from above, like those 

We often saw amid the fiowery walks 

Of Paradise, whispers into my ear, 

In accents sweet, of endless joy above. 

And bids me look on-high. There Abel lives ; 

And drest in robes of spotless innocence, 

Before the Golden Throne adoring bends. 

With him a convoy of celestial ones 

Comes to attend my parting soul above, 

Where sin is known no more. 

" Hark ! they draw near ! 
I see them now ! Softly ! they beckon me 
To join their song — a song so sweet, like that 
They sung when erst they saw Creation's work 
Wrought and complete. But hark ! a single voice 



288 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

And one well known, I hear. 'Tis Abel's voice ! ' 

And with a sweet-toned harp alone he sings 

A song unheard by all the heavenly choirs — 

The wonders of redeeming love ! That song 

My voice shall join. Behold, the Blest Supreme 

Extends a golden harp and bids me come ! 

Then quickly all farewell. 'Twill not be long ; 

For soon you, too, will join me there. Farewell!" 

Wliile thus she spoke, the solemn group had knelt 

Around her sylvan couch, with listening ear. 

To catch her every word. Bat when her voice, 

Which seemed new-tuned to join the blissful song. 

Pronounced that word " farewell," her eye stood fix'd, 

Reflecting, like some gentle sleeping lake, 

The silver beams of evening light ; and when 

The throbbing breast and quivering lips were stilled — 

And smiles which faded not illumed the cheek. 

As though the soul had left upon that face 

The impress of its joy — then first a cry 

Of anguish deep bespoke the heart-felt grief ; 

And mingled tears bedew'd that lovely form 

Forever stilled in death. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 289 

THE OLD HOME WITHOUT MOTHER. 

Albert Barns. 

TT makes a sad desolation when from a liappy home 
a mother is taken away, and when, whatever may 
be the sorrows or successes of hfe, she is to greet the re- 
turning son or daughter no more. The home of our 
childhood may be still lovely. The family mansion — 
the green fields — the running stream — the moss-cov- 
ered well — the trees — the lawn — the rose — the ;weet- 
brier may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an 
aged father, with venerable locks, sitting m his lone- 
liness, with everything to command respect and love ; 
but she is not there. The mother has been borne forth 
to sleep by the side of her children who went before 
her, and the place is not what it was. 

There may be those there whom we much love, 
but she is not thereo We may have formed new rela- 
tions in life, tender and strong as they can be ; we may 
have another home, dear to us as was the home of our 
childhood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and 
religion to make us happy, but that home is not what it 



290 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a loos- 
ening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, de- 
signed to prepare us for our eternal flight from every- 
thing dear here below. 



LIFE is real, life is earnest, 
And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the souL 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 291 

MY MOTHER. 

Mrs. Helen C. Smith. 

5|T^IS more than twenty years ago, in autumn cold 

-I- and gray, 
My gentle mother closed her eyes and passed from earth 

away. 
Her wasted form, her pallid cheek, her sweet, angelic 

smile. 
Told us that death was hovering near, though lingering 

for awhile ; 
But on that morning, while the stars paled in the light 

of day. 
Amid the tears that vainly sought the dreaded hand to 

stay. 
He bore her happy spirit hence across the swelling tide, 
And half the light went out from home the hour my 

mother died. 

My youthful days have long since flown to the return- 
less shore. 
Yet oft in thought I Hve again those early seasons o'er ; 



392 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

My mother's calm and patient face, methinks I see it 

now, 
Her cheerful smile, the lines of care that marked her 

thoughtful brow ; 
Her loving eyes still look on me through parting mists 

of years. 
Her gentle voice still comforts me when I am bowed in 

tears ; 
I seem to see her form again, as once at close of day 
She stood within the open door and watched her child 

at play. 

And often in the dreams of night her cherished face I 

see, 
And 'mid the old familiar scenes once more I seem 

to be ; 
Once more her hand is on my head, once more her 

voice I hear 
Singing the hymns of other days, to memory ever dear. 
How often in the summer morn that voice rose clear 

and sweet 
In praise to God, while I, a child, followed her busy feet. 



210 THEM'S LEA TH. 203 

My mother's voice! Fond memory can no richer 

treasure bring, 
No songs are half so sweet to me as those she used to 

sing. 



ISTo tales so well remembered are as those rehearsed to 
me, 

A happy, trusting little child beside my mother's knee; 

Of all the gentle, loving words ^vith which my life 

was blest, 
My own dear mother's were to me the wisest and the 

best. 

Yet oft as I look backward o'er the long, long waste of 

years, ' - 

My heart is filled with sudden pain, my eyes grow dim 

with tears. 
As I recall with vain regret and many a secret smart. 
How oft, in times of waywardness, I grieved her tender 

heart. 

My mother, when I think of all thy self-forgetting 
zeal, 



204 MOTHER'S D EA TR. 

That sought another's grief to share, another's woes to 

heal ; 
The little sliining deeds of love the world not often 

sees, . 

Ah me ! I cannot count the worth of blessings such as 

these ! 
But still in fadeless memories they are treasured every 

one. 
Those little golden threads of life her hands so deftly 

spun ; 
And often as in reverie they come again to mind, 
I would that I might leave as rich a heritage behind. 



AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

WHEl!^ I think of my mother, how tender and lov- 
ing she always was to me, I am ashamed and 
humiliated that I am not a better man ; and when I 
visit her grave, I never fail to renew my vows of faith- 
fulness to her instructions and to Heaven. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 295 



SHE IS DYHTG! 



SHE is dying ! Big, cold drops are gathering 
On her forehead, smooth and high, 
And a more than earthly hght is heaming 

In her wild and brilHant eye. 
'Neath the finger beats her pulse as lightly 

As a feather swayed by air ; 
And as cold as winter's snowy shrouding 
Are her hands so thin and fair. 

She is dying ! Ope the western window 

Wide, and let the sunset ray 
Greet once more on earth her fading vision, 

Ere her spirit pass away. 
Let her breathe the pure sweet air of heaven ; 

Let her hear the wild bird's song — 
Quickly bring some water cool and limpid, 

Moist her parched lips and tongue. 

She is d;y^ng ! Loved ones are bending 
O'er her pale and wasted form ; 



S96 MOTHER'S DEATB. 

One her icy hand is fondly pressing ; 

Tears of grief are gushing warm. 
!N"ow her bloodless lips are trem'lous moving — 

Brighter grows her brilliant eye — 
Ears are bent to catch the broken whisper 

Of her long and last good-by. 

She is dying ! See the smile of rapture 

Playiiig on her pallid face ; 
Briglit, seraphic forms are waiting — 

Soon she'll feel their sweet embrace. 
It is finished ! Death's dread struggle's over ; 

Homeward has the spirit fled ; 
Cold and lifeless in the arms of the dread monstei 

Lies the mother — she is dead. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 297 



MEMOEIES OF MOTHEE. 

rpHERE is something in sickness that breaks down 
■^ the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and 
brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that 
has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and 
despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed, in 
the neglect and loneliness of a strange land, but has 
thought of the mother that looked on his childhood, 
that smoothed his pillow and administered to his help- 
lessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the 
love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other 
affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by 
selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by 
worthlessness, nor stiHed by ingratitude. She will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will 
surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will 
glory in his fame, and exalt in his prosperity : — and, 
if misfortune overtake him, he will be dearer to 
her for his misfortune. 



298 MOTHERS DEATJS. 



MY MOTHEE'S WHEEL. 

IK the shadows creeping o'er 
Narrow pane and attic floor, 
Stands a wheel with mold'ring band, 
Turned no more by foot or hand ; 
Dust upon it deeply lies, 
Tiny specks that cloud the eyes ; 
Over it the spiders spin 
Daylight out and evening in. 

As I sit beside it now, 
"Weary heart and aching brow, 
Years go backward as the tide 
From the silver seasons ghde. 
Life again is passing fair, 
Sunshine ghnts my face and hair, 
And a simple child I kneel 
Happy by this little wheel. 

Once again I hear its hum, 
While the moments go and come ; 



MOTHERS DEATR. 299 

See the tireless fingers hold 
Finest threads like shining gold ; 
Busy till the sunset red, 
Till the last faint beam is fled ! 
Spinning all the livelong day, 
Hours of pain and joy away. 

Faithful hands that toiled so long, 
Lips that sung my cradle song. 
Come and hush my sighs once more, 
Lighten burdens as before ! 
Softly through the silent room 
Floats a brightness through the gloom, 
"While her presence seems to steal 
Back to me beside this wheel- 



AWOMA^N" strong and firm to do the right. 
Who with the old-time martyrs might have stood, 
Yet full of sympathy with every mood. 
In time of trouble cheery, still and bright. 

—G. Wet/ierly. 



300 MOTHERS DEATH, 



THE PATHOS OF LIFE. 

APEOFOUl^D thinker, after investigating the other 
religions of the world, past and present, will dis- 
cover that it is the pathetic side of Christianity which 
gives it the strange stamp of divinity. Therein Hes its 
power of deepening and broadening the emotional 
natm^e of mankind and womankind, and rendering 
them noble and progressive. It is, also, the pathos of 
the soul which tells best of its immortality. ISTothing 
could be more pathetic than the last request of the late 
Governor Wiltz, of Louisiana. " Stand in the sunlight 
that I may look on you as I die ! " said he. And the 
weeping wife left his bedside, and, with the light pour- 
ing in upon her face and form, was the last object on 
which the eyes of the dying man rested. 

An incident occurred in Jersey City not long since, 
which must bring something more than sympathy to 
the eyes of sensitive people. Twenty years since the 
husband of a poor woman entered the army as a soldier 
in the late civil war, but was not heard of again. Dur- 



MOTHERS DEATH. 301 

ing all that time she had supported herself by manual 
labor of a severe character, and accumulated over four 
hundred dollars, when she died. Her death was sup- 
])osed to have been caused by sudden illness, and, when 
found by her neighbors, her eyes were stonily fixed on 
the clothes of her baby, which she had treasured since 
her husband departed for the battlefield. She had 
prepared to die, and made herself a shroud in which 
she robed herself, and spread on a chair at the head 
of her bed were a white veil and garments supposed to 
have been used by her when a bride. A portrait of 
her baby was found in a chest, along with the clothing 
of a tiny being some two years old. She had laid the 
chest oprn so she could see them, and thus contentedly 
resigned herself to deutn. 



A mother's love 1 it is a gleam 
Of sacred light, 
That makes the world an Eden seem. 

— Mrs. Gardner. 



303 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



MY MOTHEE KNELT IK PEAYEE. 

— Thomas McKeUer. 

OISTCE in my boyhood's gladsome day. 
My spirits light as air, 
I wandered to a lonely room 
Where mother knelt in prayer. 

Her hands were clasped in fervency. 

Her lips gave forth no sound; 
Yet, awestruck, solemnly I felt 

I stood on holy ground. 

My mother, all-entranced in prayer, 

My presence heeded not ; 
And reverently I turned away 

In silence from the spot. 

An orphan wanderer, far from home 

In after-time I strayed ; 
But God has kept me, and I feel 

He heard her when she prayed. 



s^&JMmisys 




MOTHER'S mYl 



■"VC— — M 



I » ml* 



"a* 




?'■ V-H— X > 



(^ 




Slie sleeps, slie sleeps! 
And never more 
Will her lootsteps lall ley the old home door. 



THE HOLY GRAVE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

C. O. Woods, D. D. 

I stood alone, 
About me softly fell the shadows gray. 
The west that late had flushed with rosy tints 
N^ow ashen grew as fled the sun afar 
Like maiden who with paling cheek beholds 
Her love depart. 

Alone, yet not alone ; 

The evergreen a kindly welcome waved, 

The rose-tree nodded as endowed with life 

And pity. The gentle breath of eve 

Fell on my heated brow as with 

A mother's loving kiss enriched. 

The marble white on which I leaned 

TIad gazed upon the sun until a warmth 

Had touched its heart. 

It brought no chill 

To thrill along my nerves and tell 

Of depths below. So tender was the hour, 

305 



306 MOtBER'S grave, 

A gentle peace descended on my heart 
And holy memories filled my eyes with tears. 
Then through the mist that sorrow sent 
I read the legend carved upon the stone, 
It came from Holy "Writ, and fitting 'twas 
The Word she loved so well should serve 

As epitaph : 

" Her children rise 

And call her blessed ; her husband also, and 
He praiseth her." 

The device on the stone. 
Two hands in farewell clasp, with '' Till 
We meet again," as if the passing spirit 
Whispered back to one to w^hom she gave 
In girlhood sweet, that priceless trust, 
A woman's heart. * * ^K And he was dead. 
Then mused I, with a thrill of tender joy, 
••' Bring chisel and remove that word which tells 
Of time: Leave only hands in greeting joined 
And ' We meet again ;' for they have met 
No more to sorrow o'er the ills 
Of earth, or hand in hand to tread the path 



MOTHER'S GRAVE, 307 

Of pilgrims through the vale of tears ; 
But with new youth and fonder love endowed 
To hold sweet converse through the rosy hours 
Of that eternal day." 

The light of sun 
Was long since gone, and darkness grew apace, 
Yet in my heart a light diviner fell — 
The dust beneath me, though so holy, was 
But dust — my mother was not there ; 
But safe with God and dear ones gone before. 
Not there; yet will that lowly grave 
Be Mecca to my wandering feet until 
I cross the river dark, and tread 
The shining way. 




308 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER. 

Lord Macaulay. 

CHILDREN, look in those eyes, listen to that dear 
voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch 
that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand ; make 
much of it while you ha\^e that most precious of all 
gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of 
those eyes, the anxiety in that tone and look, however 
slight your pain. In after life you may have friends, 
fond, dear friends ; but never will you have again the 
inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you 
which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in 
my struggles with the dark, uncaring world for the 
sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling 
in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale suited to my 
age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Never can 
I forget the sweet glances cast upon me when I ap- 
peared asleep ; never her kiss of peace at night. Years 
have passed away since we laid her beside my father in 
the old church-yard, and still her voice whispers from 
the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit spots 
long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 309 



MY MOTHEE. 




Y mother ! long, long years have passed 
Since half in wonder, half in dread, 
I looked upon thy clay-cold face. 

And heard the whisper—" She is dead." 

The memory of thine earthly form 

Is dim as a remembered dream ; 
But year by year more close to mine 

Doth thy celestial spirit seem. 

When by the mouldering stone I stood, 

Which marks the spot where thou art laid, 

And with the daisies on the sod. 
My little child in gladness played. 

Oh, how my spirit longed to know ,. 

If from the heights of heavenly joy. 
The love that watched my infant years. 

Looked down to bless my bright-eyed boy. 



310 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

"SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY." 

I!N^ an old church-yard stood a stone 
Weather-marked and stained ; 
The hand of time had crumbled it, 

So only part remained. 
Upon one side I could just trace, 

" In memory of our mother ;" 
An epitaph which spoke of home 
Was chiseled on the other. 

I've gazed on monuments of fame, 

High towering to the skies ; 
Tve seen the sculptured marble stone 

Where a great hero lies ; 
Biit by this epitaph I paused 

A.nd read it o'er and o'er, 
For I had never seen inscribed 

Such words as these before. 

" She always made home happy." What 

A noble record left ; 
A legacy of memory sweet 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 311 

To tliose she loved, bereft ; 
And what a testimony given 

By those who knew her best, 
Engraven on this plain rude stone 

That marked their mother's rest. 

So when was stilled her weary heart. 

Folded her hands so white. 
And she was carried from the home 

She'd always made so bright, 
Her children raised a monument 

That money could not buy, 
As Avitness of a noble life, 

Whose record is on-high. 

A noble life, but written not 

In any book of fame ; 
Among the list of noted ones 

None ever saw her name ; 
For only her own household knew 

The victories she had won, 
And none but they could testify 

How well her work was done. 



313 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

MY MOTHEE'S GEAYE. 

M. C. Henderson. 

f jnHE grave of my mother is on an elevation that 
JL overlooks a beautiful village where many an hour 
was spent in study and recreation in days of boyhood. 
A marble slab marks the place where we laid her to 
rest, nearly a score of years ago. Occasionally during 
these years have we stood by her grave, while precious 
remembrances have crowded upon our mind, and the 
sweet hope of meeting again cheered our sad hearts 
burdened with care and the responsibilities of life, and 
our home far away ; but a mother's grave, with all the 
hallowed associations clustering around, can never be 
forgotten. 

The grave of a mother is indeed a sacred spot. It 
may be retired from the noise of business, and un- 
noticed by the stranger, but to our hearts so dear. The 
love we bear to a mother is not measured by years, is 
not annihilated by distance, nor forgotten when she 
sleeps in dust. Marks of age may appear in our homes, 
and on our persons, but the memory of a mother is 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 313 

more enduring than time itself. AYlio has stood by the 
grave of a mother and not remembered her pleasant 
smiles, kind words, earnest prayers, and assurances ex- 
pressed in a dying hour. Many years may have passed 
away, memory may be treacherous in other things, l)ut 
will reproduce with freshness the impressions once 
made by a mother's influence. Why may we not lin- 
ger where rests all that was earthly of a sainted 
mother? It may have a restraining influence upon 
the wayward, prove a valuable incentive to increased 
faithfulness, encourage hope in the hour of depression, 
and give fresh inspiration in Chris tiiui lifo. 




814 MOTHERS GRAVE, 

OYER MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

I LOVE to stay where my mother sleeps, 
And gaze on each star as it twinkhng peeps, 
Through the bending willow which lonely weeps 
Over my mother's grave. 

1 love to kneel on the green turf there, 
Afar from the scenes of my daily care, 
A.nd breathe to my Savior my evening prayer 
Over my mother's grave. 

I well remember how oft she led. 
And knelt me by her as with God she plead. 
That I might bo his when the sod was spread 
Over my mother's grave. 

I love to think how 'neath the ground. 
She slumbers in death as a captive bound ; , 
But she'll slumber no more at the trumpet sound 
Over my mother's grave. . 

— Apples of Cohl 




Tliere's a land far av^^ay, 'mid. the stars, -we are told, 
Where they kno-w not the sorrov^rs of time. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE, 315 



MEDITATIONS. 

Once more the grave is opened, 
The coffin and the shroud * * * 
Prepared, and the dead laid out for buriaL Swift 
And sudden came the blow, and the freed spirit 
Took its heavenward flight, and rested with its God. 

Grief is dumb, and 
S^^mpathy is silent here. IsTone but children know — 
Tliy children, mother ; their hearts alone can tell 
Thy worth, thy love, thy tender watchfulness. 
Long years of care and fond endearment, and kind words 
Of excellent instruction, have Arm enstamped 
On memory's tablet what no words can tell, and 
What sorrow in her silent depths, at the sad loss, 
Alone can know. Oh, mother, mother, thou art gone ; 
The hearth thy presence honored now is lone 
And desolate. Tears are here, and the sable robes 
Of mourning through these halls glide gloomily, for 
Thou, our joy, our love, our dear, dear mother, art not. 
Oh, we see thee now as in past happier times 



810 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

We saw thee, as with that old worn Bible on thy knees 
Thou didst read its living pages, and gather thence 
Its truths divine and heavenly sweets. We hear thy 
Kind words of teaching from its pure Oracles, 
And tell thy warm desire that we might find its hopes 
Our hopes, its Faith, as thine, our chiefest stay. Mother, 
Tell us — Do bright spirits know each face in heaven ? 
Do they mingle hearts which once on earth were joined? 
Do they speak of earthly meeting, and bring past joys 
To mind ? Oh, then we'll part with thee with chastened 

hearts, 
For thou art there, and we will cherish all thy words, 
And meet thee in the skies in high and heavenly 
Converse, to part not forever, ever more. 

— Lewellyn. 




MOTHER'S GRAVE. 317 

AT MOTHER'S GEAYE, 

James Aldrieh. 

I'N beauty lingers on the hills 
The death smile of the dying day, 
And twilight in my heart instills 

The softness of its ray. 
I watch the river's peaceful How 

Here standing by my mother's grave, 
And feel my dreams of glory go, 

Like weeds upon its struggling wave. 

God gives us ministers of love 

Which we regard not, being near, 
Death takes them from us — then we feel 

That angels have been with us here ! 
As mother, sister, friend, or wife, 

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain; 
And when the grave has closed between 

Our hearts and theirs, we love in vain. 

Would, mother, thou couldst hear me tell 
How oft, amid my brief career, 



318 MOTHERS GEAVK 

For sins and follies loved too well 
Ilatli fallen the free repentant tear ; 

And in mj waywardness of youth, 
How bitter thoughts have given to me 

Contempt for error, love for truth, 
Mid sweet remembrances of thee. 

The harvest of my youth is done. 

And manhood come with all its cares, 
Finds garnered up within my heart 

For every flower, a thousand tears. 
Dear mother, couldst thou know my thoughts, 

Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, 
The depths of feeling in my heart. 

Thou wouldst not blush to call mo thine- 



THERE is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, 
Low in the. ground. 



MOTEEWS GRAVE. 319 



WKITTEK AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

George D. Prentice, 

TIIE trembling dew-drops fall 
Upon the opening fiowers like souls at rest ; 
The stars shine gloriously, and all 
Sa^e me are blest. 

Mother, I love thy grave, 

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 
Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave 

Above thy child ? 

'Tis a sweet, sweet flower, yet must 

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow ; 

Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem ; dust 
Is on thy brow. 

And I could love to die ; 

To leave untasted life's dark bitter streams — 
By thee, as erst in childhood lie, 

And share thy dreams. 



320 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

But I must linger here 

To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear, 

With bitter tears. 

Aye, I must linger here, 

A lonely branch upon a withered tree, 
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere. 

Went down with thee. 

Oft from life's withered bower, 

In still communion with the past^ I turn 
And muse on thee, the only flower 

In memory's urn. 

Where is thy spirit flown? 

I gaze above — thy look is imaged there ; 
I listen — and thy gentle tone 

Is on the air. 

0, come while here I press 

My brow upon thy grave ; and iii those mild 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 321 

And thrilling tones of tenderness, 
BlesSj bless thy child I 

And when the evening pale 

Bows, like a mourner on the dim blue wave, 
I stay to hear the night winds wail 

Around thy grave. 



ALOKE. 



I WAS forty years old when mother died, was mar. 
ried, and she had nursed my children ; but I never 
felt more alone in the world than when I turned away 
from her new-made grave. 



333 3I0TEEES GIIAVE. 

SHE SLEEPS. 

Sarah K. Bolton. 
She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the morning light 
Disperses the shadows of solemn night, 
When dew-drops are gleaming on leaf and spray, 
When blossoms are wooing the new-born day ; 
When bright birds are singing o'er hill and glen — 

Will she wake, will she speak 

To her loved ones then ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the day-beam dies 
In the crimson and gold of the evening skies. 
When the south wind whispereth low and sweet ; 
When the starlight comes with its silvery feet ; 
When night brings rest to the homes of men — 

Will she wake, will she speak 

To her loved ones then ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 
When the gentle spring 



MOTHERS GRAVE. ^23 

Eeturns from its southland wandering ; 
When the breezes sing and the children play ; 
When the reapers scatter the new-mown hay ; 
When they gather the sheaves of the golden grain — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home again ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the chilly winds 
Shake the yellow leaves from the withered vines ; 
When the autumn moon is full and red ; 
When the birds are gone and the flowers are dead ; 
When the frost on the sward lies deep and hoar — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home once more ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When they meet at night 
In the cheerful glow of the home-fire's light ; 
When the wintry winds are wild and high ; 
When clouds are black in the cold gray sky ; 
When her husband's brow is pale with care — 



824 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Will she wake, will she come 
To her dear ones there ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

And never more 
"Will her footsteps fall by the old home door, 
E'or her voice be heard with its loving tone 
By the lone ones left round her own hearth-stone , 
She has gone, she has gone to her home afar — 

To the beautiful land 

Where the angels are. 




MOTHEWS GRAVE. 335 



NEARER THEE. 

MOTHER ! dear mother ! tlie feelings nurst 
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first ; 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
And as year by year and day by day 
Some friend still trusted drops away, 
Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee. 



IJE'DER THE VIOLETS. 

HER hands are cold ; her face is white : 
E'o more her pulses come and go ! 
Her eyes are shut to life and light — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 



^2Q MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



MEDITATIOI^S AT THE GEAYE. 

MY departed motlier once visited witli me this 
lonely place, and thought and felt as I do now 
as she looked upon the graves of others ; hut sickness 
came — death came — and the funeral ohsequies; and 
here now she reposes until wakened hy the voice of the 
Son of God. Mortal — all are mortal ; I will not thrust 
you from my mind, ye thoughts of frailty, for ye are 
messengers come from Heaven's high throne, to assist in 
binding my fleeting life to that which is immutable and 
eternal. I know, I feel, I too must die ! True, this 
world is bright and beautiful, and it wearies me not ; 
health flows through my veins and glows in my cheek ; 
strength nerves my arms, and strong are the pulsations 
of my heart; my business, my family, and the many 
objects I wish to accomplish do press and clamor for 
death's delay; but he, the inexorable King of Terror, 
heeds not their voice, but disdains their entreaties. 
Death is coming ; he has been approaching me year by 
ear, and day by day. The passing hours, and min- 



MOTHER'S ORAYE, 327 

utes, and seconds tell me as they % that he is coming 
nearer. \ With an eagle's eye he holds me in view, and 
with a hon's heart he follows upon my path ; in the city 
or in the forest, hy land or by sea, by night or by day, 
he never falters nor wearies. 0, yes, I feel as I gaze upon 
yonder setting sun, that I have one day less — and now 
that gorgeous glow upon the mountain-top vanishes, 
and dies away in the starlit heavens — ^yes, one hour less 
to live, since I came her^ to communo with my mother, 
and with the dead. Yes, my last sickness will come — 
my physician will be calm and silent, he will breathe no 
word of hope, — my wife and children will weep around 
my bed — through the rooms with which I have been 
familiar for many years, it will be whispered, "Ae is dying r 
and I will see the shadow of him who has so long pur- 
sued me fall upon my path — and I shall feel his skele- 
ton hands clutch my heart-strings, while his icy em- 
braces freeze my blood, and the tide of life stands still. 
Then it will be whispered through the house, " It is all 
over, he is dead !" All still — only the sobs of weeping 
loved ones will echo through that chamber where I 
bowed to the bidding of death. Cold and insensible 



328 MOTHER'S GMAVE. 

shall I lie, while the vigils of friendship shall he 
kept for the last night that I shall ever spend in my 
long and fondly-cherished home. And the morning 
light of another day will break, hut I shall not welcome 
its coming. The chirping of the swallows and notes of 
the robin and thrush will not ravish my ears. The 
beautiful landscape, over which my eyes wandered with 
so much delight in early morn, will not be surveyed by 
me. Friends will gather around me, and draw aside 
the curtains to let in the light of day, that they may 
look upon my face, but I will not know them. They 
will caress and kiss the lifeless form, but my heart will 
not thrill under the pressure of affection's hand, nor 
my lips throw back the glow of friendship's kiss. 'No ; 
I shall be dead ! They will shroud me for my burial, 
but I shall not behold my white apparel. They will lay 
me in the coffin, and I shall offer no resistance. My 
familiar friends will gaze upon me there, but I shall not 
return their look. And those whom I most loved will 
give their last long look, and I am then shut out from the 
world in which I have lived and moved. Gently is the 
lid laid over my face, and screwed fast. ISTeighbors and 



MOTHER'S GRA VE. 

friends are gathered, and I am carried out of my house, 
never more to return. Even my name will pass from 
it, and strangers will dwell there. The funeral cortage 
will move sadly away from those ancient trees, and over 
that familiar road to this silent abode of the dead. And 
here they will lay me in the grave as they did my 
mother, by whose tomb I write. And the man of God 
will utter the solemn but hopeful words, " We commit 
this body to the ground — earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust — in hope of the general resurrection and 
the life of the world to come." 

And, having performed this last sad office, they will 
return to "their homes and leave me. I shall be alone 
in the grave; alone shall I slumber. Strangers will 
read my brief history, which the hand of friendship 
may chronicle upon the marble, and then turn away 
with a sigh, and say, " Such is the end of man." Those 
m whose memories I may live will often come to strew 
flowers over my grave and drop a tear of aifection. 
They will plant the rose, the lily, and the evergreen, as 
emblems of a fragrant and beautiful immortality which 
they assign me* hi the Paradise of God. All this will 



830 



MOTBER'S GRAVE. 



take place with me — yes, all may say with me. Ah ! 

it is a solemn thought, that every step hrings us nearer 

to the grave ; a solemn thought that there is but one 

passage to eternity, and that lies through '^ death's iron 

gate." For — 

" Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! 
What a strange moment must it be, when near 
Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view ! 
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd, 
To tell what's doing on the other side !" 




MOTHER'S GUAVE. 381 



MOTHER. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 

EAE.LY one summer morning, 
I saw two children pass, 
Their footsteps slow, yet lithesome, 

Scarce bent the tender grass. 
One lately out of babyhood 

Looked up with eager eyes ; 
The other watched her wistfully, 

Oppressed with smothered sighs. 
"See, mother," cried the little one, 

" I gathered them for you. 
The sweetest flowers and lilies, — 

And Mabel has some too." 
"Hush Kellie," whispered Mabel, 

"We have not reached it yet, 
Wait till we get there, my darling. 

It isn't far, my pet." 
" Get where?" asked I^elhe, "tell me." 

" To the church-yard," Mabel said. 



833 motheh's grave. 

" E'o! no!" cried little I^ellie, 

And shook lier sunny head. 
Still Mabel whispered sadly, 

" We must take them to the grave, 
Come, darling;" and the childish v dee 

Tried to he clear and brave. 
But IsTellie still kept calling 

Far up into the blue : 
> " See, mother, see how pretty ! 

We gathered them for you." 

And when her sister pleaded, 
And cried and would not go — 

" Angels don't live in church-yards, 
My mother don't, I know." 

Then Mabel bent and kissed her, 
" So be it dear," she said, 

" We'll take them to the arbor 
And lay them there instead, 

For mother loved it dearly. 
It was the sweetest place !" 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 333 

And the joy that came to ITellie 
Shone up in Mabel's face. 

I saw them turn and follow 

A path with blossoms bright 
Until the nodding branches 

Concealed them from my sight. 
But still, like sweetest music, 

The words came ringing through : 
" See, mother, see how pretty ! 

We gathered them for you." 




334 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

HOW faded and dead that rose seems. But a few 
days since and it was one of the most beautiful 
that grew here. It came out early in the spring, and 
from the day it first commenced to bloom, it has beeu 
my favorite and pet. I have watered and nursed it, 
day after day, and have watched its wide leaves unfold- 
ing themselves with a more than ordinary interest. I 
love flowers dearly, and the more when they are so very 
beautiful. I love, too, to pluck and carry them to those 
whose hearts are warm in sympathy with mine. This, 
I think, is a fitting place for them to bloom, and here 
their tender language is doubly sweet. How beautiful 
that red rose ; its language is that of love. And how 
appropriate ; for none but our best, and most sacred, and 
loving emotions are awakened when we are here. 
Here the ordinary difficulties of life are forgotten, and 
we feel that we are walking among the dead. Here we 
come to cultivate the feelings of tender regard for those 
who sleep in these silent sepulchres. Here friends and 



JIOTHEB'S GRAVE. 333 

enemies lie side by side, and no discordant note dis- 
turbs the stillness of tlieir long, long sleep. Here, too, 
the rose, in all its crimson hues, blooms out above 
them, filling the air Avith its fragrance, and lifting its 
tender arms up toward that land where love reigns 
supreme. But this one, this withered one, that I have 
loved and cherished so much, it has wilted and the cold 
chilling winds of death have paled its crimson leaves. 
So fade and die those we love most and dearest. 
Early in the spring-time, its parent stem, reaching up, 
twined its tiny fingers about the branches of this little 
bush, where, see, it still clings. When the flower com- 
menced to unfold its pretty leaves, I was so delighted 
with their beauty that I have ever, since watched and 
nourished it with cherished feelings of love and tender- 
ness ; not for the evenness of its color, but for the 
beauty of its zigzag capillaries that ran promiscuously 
through its leaves, and for the fresh life with which it 
was clothed. But it has withered, and its drooping 
head leans down toward the homes of the dead. Yes- 
terday it was bright and beautiful ; but when this morn- 
ing's sun came up, it wilted, and drooped, and died. 



336 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

A-li, liow soon the most lovely objects of earth fly away. 
To-day, the youth is full of life and health, his cheek 
blooms as the rose, and he plans for years to come ; but 
to-morrow, the fell destroyer lays his withering hand 
upon him, and he fades and dies, as has this rose. How 
true that life's joys are fleeting, and that we have no 
abiding city here. But there is a land where we shall 
gather flowers that will not fade, and where our friends 
shall die no more. 

Many times have we visited this beautifal place, 
and watered and watched these flowers as they have 
unfolded above mother's grave, and the graves of the 
little children buried from her home. Here mother 
sleeps in holy quiet, while these flowers bloom over her 
silent abode. Here, too, is Dottie's grave, the child 
over whom she wept bitter tears, and at whose grave 
she planted flowers that still bloom as the summers 
come and go. 

Yonder is a sister's, and there a brother's grave; 
and all around are the graves of our neighbors— those 
we knew and loved in years long gone ; and here by 
mother's side is a vacant place for us. When she died. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 337 

it was her request that we be buried by her side. 
Some time a grave will be dug here, and we will be 
brought and buried low in the ground. Then loved 
ones will plant flowers over us, and water them ; 
and, perhaps, care for them as we care for these. 
Friends will visit these grounds, and as they pass my 
grave, will linger for a while and talk of me and of my 
life's work. They will speak of the book I am now 
writing, of my mother, and of the love I cherished for 
her, and of how lonely life was to me when she was 
gone ; they will talk of those buried near me here, and, 
perhaps, of the want of care about my grave, and then 
pass on. My children will gather flowers, and scatter 
them over my grave ; and talk of how I suffered before 
I died, and how I loved them, and tried to care for 
them, and provide for them. The}^ will speak of the 
last few days of my life, of the physician who attended 
me in my last illness, and of those who were present 
when I died. How strange it will be when my hands 
are folded across my breast and I am laid in a coffin, 
and buried here in this cold ground, where no one can 
ever look on me again. Dear mother, speak to me; tell 



338 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

me how it seems to be covered up in the grave ? My 
heart is crushed in sadness, and I long for one word ; 
one token that will inspire my languid hope. Mother, 
speak to me ! But, alas ! I know that mother cannot 
speak, and so will it be with me some time. I will be 
buried here ; I will be shut up in a coffin and lowered 
in the ground, and the man of God will say, " Dust to 
dust and ashes to ashes." I will be left deep down in 
the dreadful grave, the clods will be tumbled in on top 
of me, and I will sleep that sleep that knows no wak- 
ing. Dear me, how awful the thought ! How will I 
escape ? Where can I fly away so that this frightful 
fate may not be mine? What can I do that I may not 
die and be buried ? Oh, the cold and cruel grave ! 
But, alas, I must come here, and be buried in the 
ground ! May my mother's God help me to meet this 
fate with courage; that I may die as she died, full of 
faith and hope. 

*' That awful day will surely come, 
The appointed hour makes haste 
When I must stand before my Judge, 
And pass the solemn test.'^ 



MOTUERS GRAVE, 339 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

Mrs. Felicia Hcmans. 

Come nearer ! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your mother and embrace her now 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come nearer ! — once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On her cold cheek ; then bear her to her rest ! 

Yet weep, and it is well ; 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er she moved — the welcome and the blessed ; — 
IN'ow gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest. 

Look yet upon her, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was she not fair amid the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — 



340 MOTHER'S GEAVK 

But now where death has power, may love be blessed ; 
Come near, and bear ye the beloved to rest. 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
"Whose spirit's light is quenched ! — for her the past 
Is sealed. She may not fall, she may not cast 

Her brightest hope away; 
All is riot here of our beloved and blessed — 
Leave ye the sleeper with her God to rest. 



THOU angel spirit, who so oft didst sing 
My infant cares to sleep upon thy breast, 
Let me but hear the rustling of thy wing, 
Around thy child its guardian influence fling ! 
Oh, come thou from the islands of the blest. 
And bear my weary soul up to thy sainted rest ! 



MOTIIEWS GRAVE. 341 



DEATH A^D FimEEAL. 

TTTETT died lamented in the strength of life 
A valued mother. 
All her ties the strong invader broke, 
In all their strength, in one tremendous stroke ; 
Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, 
And terror grew tid every hope was gone. 

Slowly they bore with solemn steps the dead, 
When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were shed. 

We left her in the silent grave alone, 
The mother we shall never cease to moan. 

Arrived at home, how then we gazed aro^md, 

In every place where she no more was found ; 

The seat at table she was wont to fill ; 

The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still ; 

The garden- walks, a labor all her own ; 

The lattice bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown ; 

The Sunday pew she filled with all her race ; — 



542 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Eacli place of hers was now a sacred place, 
That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes, 
Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise 

Oh, sacred sorrow by whom souls are tried. 
Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; 
Still let me feel for what the pangs are sent, 
And be my guide, and not my punishment. 



MY stricken heart to Jesus yields 
Love's deep devotion now ; 
Adores and blesses — while it bleeds-- 
His hand that strikes the uiown 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 343 



HALLOWED GEOTJOT). 

COME unto the church-yard near, 
"Where the gentle whispering breeze 
Softly rustleth through the trees ; 
Where the moonbeam pure and white, 
Falls in floods of cloudless light, 
Bathing many a turfy heap 
Where the lowlier slumberers sleep ; 
And the graceful willow waves, 
Banner-like, o'er many graves ; 
Here hath prayers arisen like dews, — 
Here the earth is holy, too ; 
Lightly press each grassy mound; 
Surely, this is hallowed ground. 



344 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

HEAET-THROBS. 

F. R. Anspach. 

YISITS to the places where our departed repose are 
prompted by the instincts of humanity and the 
suggestions of love. They have been withdrawn from 
those circles which their presence made glad. Their 
voices mingle no more in the hymn of praise which 
rises around the family altar ; they are not of the num- 
ber which meet around the cheerful hearth, and in their 
retirement they claim from us an occasional visit to 
their graves. The remotest period in my history to 
which memory points is when, about ^ve years of age, 
I was alone in the green lawn that stretches out before 
the home of my childhood, calling my sainted mother, 
and wondering why she did not answer my call and 
hasten to my side. And, were it permitted, would she 
not have withdrawn herself from her angel companions 
and winged her flight to the presence of her lonely 
child ? Yea, I know not but that she was present with 
me, and her gentle spirit may have held my thoughts 
in communion with her. It is a beautiful and coiisoHna' 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 345 

thouglit, and one certainly not in conflict with, but 
rather encouraged by, the teachings of inspiration, that 
we have our guardian angels to accompany us through 
life; to minister to us in a way we know not; yet 
defending us from the assaults of the tempter, and 
bearing us safely through the damgers which encompass 
the road in which we travel. God promised to Israel 
that his angel should guide and guard them through 
all their wanderings. And by whom, among the armies 
of those spirits around Jehovah's throne, would the 
office to guard and guide us be more fondly accepted, 
and more faithfully executed, than by those who have 
been removed from us, but who still love us ? 

The doctrine concerning guardian angels, though 
perhaps not as clearly revealed as many others, yet has 
its foundation in that universality of belief which 
clothes any dogma with something of a divine sanc- 
tion. It may be regarded as belonging to that class of 
truths which enter into all creeds, because they have 
never been questioned, but always received the cheerful 
assent of the hearts and minds of all men. The Jews 
firmly believed that it was the prerogative of each one to 



346 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

be accompanied by an angel, whose office was to shield 
them from those destructive influences, physical and 
moral, by which they were surrounded. And the be- 
lief in guardian angels is equally general among 
Christians. And if the idea were even imaginary, and 
possessed nothing real in itself, it would still be well to 
cherish the belief for the sake of the influence which 
this persuasion exerts upon the mind. For by a law of 
nature, as powerful as it is sure in its operations, man 
becomes gradually identified with the feelings and sen- 
timents of his companions, until he is altogether assim- 
ilated to their character. If we are continually asso- 
ciated with persons whose minds are cultivated, and 
whose characters are adorned with lofty virtues, we 
will perhaps inperceptibly, yet steadily, rise to that in- 
tellectual and moral elevation which they occupy, and 
ultimately be conscious of a perfect harmony of senti- 
ment, of taste and disposition with those who have at- 
tracted and moulded our spirits into the image of their 
own. And in view of these results which the law of 
intercourse invariably produces, the persuasion of at- 
tendant spirits will necessarily exert an elevating and 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 347 

purifying influence upon us. Our intellectual and 
moral exercises will partake of the dignity and 
sanctity which are peculiar to those of angelic beings. 
And if to this we add the consideration that amonc: 
those invisible ministers commissioned to guard us, 
there is one whom we fondly cherish ; a sainted mother 
moving with us through this busy and bustling world ; 
hovering about our path by sea or by land, by day or by 
night, in public and in private, a spectator of all our 
actions and a witness of all our ways ; will not this con- 
viction be a sleepless prompter to virtue, and a constant 
monitor to warn us against vice ? Will not the felt 
nearness of some such beloved spirit animate us in 
every good work, and make us strong in every conflict ? 
Is it at the grave of a beloved mother where we 
stand? My mother! what a world of thought, 
what an ocean of bliss there is in this holy v/ord ! 
Yes, here sleeps my mother. She who forgot the 
anguish of her soul in her joy that I was born. She 
whose eyes were held waking over my infancy, when 
all others slumbered but the eye above. She whose 
love rendered her perceptions so keen and far-sighted 



348 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

that she perceived and guarded me against dangers 
while they were yet distant. She who quieted my 
feehle cries on her gentle bosom. She who first bent 
over me in devout supplications. She whose last words 
were words of blessing, and whose angel spirit, as it rose 
from that couch of suffering to eternal mansions, shook 
from its wings the incense of prayer upon my head. 
Blessed holy one, who lived in her child. Rejoiced when 
I was happy ; was in anguish when I was pained. The 
first to know and to relieve my sorrows. The first to be 
interested in my childish prattle, and to guide my tot- 
tering footsteps. Dear departed one ! shall I not here 
recall thy watchful care and unwearied love, and thank 
the Good Being who gave me such a treasure in thee ? 
Such thoughts and feelings are fitting at such a place 
where a mother sleeps, and becoming those who can ap- 
preciate a mother's affection. For who that has enjoy- 
ed her care, and received her instructions, may not 
breathe out his soul in sentiments such as shine in the 

poem of Cowper, on the receipt of his mothers 
portrait ? — 

'' My mother ! manhood's anxious brow 
And sterner cares have long been mine, 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 349 

Yet turn I to thee fondly now, 

As when upon thy bosom's shrine 
My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, 
And thy low whisper'd prayers my slumber blest. 
I've por'd o'er many a yellow page 

Of ancient wisdom, and have won, 
Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage 

Or bard have never taught thy son 
Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, 
As those his mother's faith shed on his youth." 

But, perhaps, some of my readers may have had 

the misfortune, like the writer of these pages, to lose 

their mother before they could know her, or appreciate 

her worth. And what reflections are those of 

which we are conscious at her tomb ! If w^e could but 

recall her image, or the accents of her voice, or the 

thrilling touch of a mother's caresses ! Alas ! all this 

is denied to some, and there is nothing left to tell them 

how .she looked ; for there were few pencils then 

employed to transfer the image of the living upon the 

canvas, and the sunbeam had not then learned to 

engrave likenesses upon the polished plate. Did I say 

there was nothing left to assist the imagination in the 

creation of her image ? O, yes ; every virtue which 



350 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

brightens our character was warmed into life by 
her love. For, although the seeds of those virtues 
which adorn our characters are divine, because they 
came from heaven, yet were they planted by a mother's 
band and watered by a mother's tears ; and they have 
matured in our lives, .because the eye of a covenant- 
keeping God rested upon her prayers, as chronicled in 
his book. my beloved, my sainted mother ! Though 
I never looked upon thy face to know thee ; though not 
conscious at the time that it was the music of thy 
throbbing heart that lulled me into peaceful slumbers ; 
though u.nknown to the sense of my sight, my spirit 
knows thee, and no human heart has ever thrilled with 
a hoher love than mine for thee ! Yet again shall I be 
folded in thy embrace ; for thy tomb reminds me that 
I am mortal, and thy prayers have prevailed with God, 
for thy son is on his pilgrimage to Zion ; and when 
weary and wayworn on my journey, the thought that I 
shall know thee in heaven as my mother, animates me 
with new strength, and I press onwards to our blessed 
home on-high. 



MOTHER'S ORAVK 351 

. THE EEPOSE OF THE ITOLY DEAD. 

THERE is no place where Christianity glows with 
such a divine lustre, and w^here its consolations 
are so precious and sublime, as at the grave where we 
commit a cherished one to rest. Its hopes loom out 
upon the gloom that oppresses the heart there as the 
sun when it bursts full-orbed through the dark storm- 
clouds which obscure the canopy of heaven. However 
much we may have pondered the mysteries of the 
gospel and appreciated its lessons, we can never under- 
stand its priceless value so fully as when its light bursts 
through our clouds of dark calamity, and spans them 
with the bow of promise, as its rays are reflected by our 
tears. We may have often heard and read the blessed 
announcement "that Christ brought life and immor- 
tality to light," but there we feel it. We may have ad- 
mired that charming promise, " When thou goest 
through the vrnters I will be with thee, and tlirough 
the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou 
walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt, 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the 



p53 MOTHER'S GEAVE. 

Lord, thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior." 
But, ineffably more precious did we find this promise 
in our deep afilictions, when our souls felt the conscious 
presence and support of the everlasting arms under- 
neath us. As the rose gives out its most delicious fra- 
grance when it is crushed, so do the promises of God 
breathe their healing balm most efiectually when pressed 
upon hearts broken with sorrow. 



SAINTLY SYMPATHY. 

WHEK once we close our eyes in death, 
And ilesh and spirit sever; 
When earth, and fatherland, and home, 
With all their beauty, sink in gloom — 
Say, wilhit be forever ? 

\Yill we, in heaven, no more review 

Those scenes from which we sever? 

Or will our recollections leap 

O'er death's dark gulf, at times, to keep 
With earth acquaintance ever ? 



MOTHER 8 GRAVE. 303 



THE VOICE FEOM OYEE THE EIYEK. 

— Lillie E. Barr. 
i i /^OME back," we cry, and through the silent place 

^ Of our bereaved homes, the echoes fall ; 
But yet returns no fair and shadowy face, 
In answer to our passionate recall. 

" Come back," we cry, and o'er the river cold 
Send sore beseechings to the other shore ; 

And a sweet voice, heard from the days most old. 
Makes answer thus, " They will return no more. 

" l^ever again 1 The long and bitter strife 

Of the Eternal out of Time is o'er ; 
They have a fairer and a purer life. 

Call not the dead ; they will return no more." 

"What comfort, then?" "That thou be patient here. 
In service faithful, in complainings dumb ; 

Then o'er this river some day I shall hear 

Thy voice command — ' Go tell my dead I come.' " 



354 MOTHER 8 GRAVE. 



E'O HOME. 

WHEN the honeysuckles bloom, 
And the ^vrens flutter o'er 
Their nest in the vine, 

As they have for years before, 
My heart flutters o'er 

A long-deserted nest, 
And cries out for home — 
Home and the rest. 

When wild roses shed their leaves 
O'er the rocks with moss o'ergrown, 

And I think of the summers 
That over them have flown, 

My heart would be a rose, 
To scatter, year by year, 

Its petals o'er the rock, 
Changeless and drear. 

When the night winds in the pines 
Sing their songs of the sea, 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 355 

And I seem to be rocked 

As my mother rocked me, 
And dream I am lying 

Below the ground-bird's nest, 
With the pines above me sighing. 
In dreamless rest — 

'Tis sweet to know a home 

Awaits me, so still, 
'I^eath shadows of leaves, 

On a breeze-haunted hill. 
There my mother's ashes lie, 

There on Mother Earth's breast. 
My heart will find a home — 
Home and rest. 



SHE was my friend — I had but her — no more, 
Xo other upon earth — and as for heaven, 
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom 
^NTo sign is given. My mother ! Oh, my mother ! 



356 MOTHER' 8 QBAVE. 



^^EEQIJIESCAT IE PACE." 

Sleep here m peace ! 
To earth's kind bosom do we tearful take thee ; 
Eo mortal sound from rest again shall wake thee ; 
Eo fever-thirst, no grief that needs assuaging, 
No tempest-burst above thy head loud-raging. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Eo more thou'lt know the sun's glad morning shining ; 
Eo more the glory of the day's declining ; 
Eo more the night that stoops serene above thee. 
Watching thy rest like tender eyes that love thee. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Unknown to thee the spring will come with blessing, 
The turf above thee in soft verdure dressing ! 
Unknown will come the autumn rich and mellow, 
Sprinkling thy couch with foliage golden yellow. 

Sleep here in peace ! 




MOTHERS GRAVE. 357 

Sleep here in peace ! 
This is earth's rest for all her broken-hearted, 
Where she has garnered up our dear departed ; 
The prattling babe, the wife, the old man hoary, 
The tired of human life, the crowned with glory, 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
This is the gate for thee to walk immortal ; 
This is the entrance to tlie pearly portal. 
The pathway trod by saints and sages olden, 
Whose feet shall walk Jerusalem the golden. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Fear not on earth shall be man's rest eternal ; 
Faith's morn shall come. Each setting sun diurnal, 
Each human sleeping and each human waking. 
Hastens the day that shall on earth be breaking. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Faith's morn shall come when He, our Lord and Maker, 
Shall claim his own that slumber in God's acre : 



358 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

When He who once for man death's anguish tasted, 
Shall show death's gloomy realm despoiled and wasted. 
Sleep here in peace ! 



IT may be autumn, yea, winter, with the woman — 
but with the mother, as a mother, it is always 
spring. — Rev. Thomas Cobbett, 1665, 



ITHI^K it must somewhere be written that the virt- 
ues of mothers shall, occasionally, be visited on 
their children, as well as the sins of the fathers." 

— Dickens. 



HEE office then, to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and fit, 
A link among the days, to knit 
The generations each with each. 

— Tennyson. 




MOTHER'S 



HOM 



p 



U ill 11 JJ 



■Y 



P 



MM. 



. ^, 






" I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flashing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the suowy sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before; 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The angel of death shall carry me." 



THE AI^GEL OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

Susan E. Wallace {Mrs. Oen. Lew. Wallace). 

Yain is any attempt to measure the loss of a mother 
to her little children ; after all the poets have sung and 
lovers dreamed, outside of heaven there is no love like 
mother-love. "We helieve the tender care devoted to 
those nearest and dearest, went with her to the better 
land, and in the possibilities of eternity, may be 
needed hereafter. We fancy her awaiting them in the 
place prepared for her, a little apart from the innumer- 
able company in bright array ; perhaps in one of the 

" palaces of ivory, 

Its windows crystal clear," 
of which old Bonar quaintly sung. In the light, not 
of the sun, neither of the moon, we see her beyond 
the fields of fadeless asphodel, under the waving palms, 
beside the still waters bordered with silver hlies. 
These may be merely figures, but they bear a precious 
meaning to yearning hearts made for the deep house- 
hold loves ; hearts that will not be comforted because 

the Angel of the House is missing. 

361 



S62 MOTHER'S HOME IX HEAVEN. 

OUR FUTURE HOME. 

HEAVED is tlie central point of the universe of 
God. If we are allowed to reason from analogy 
on a subject like this, we might make out more than a 
plausible or probable proof. If we examine any thing 
that is systematically arranged, we shall discover that it 
contains some controlling principle or power, which 
governs the entire structure ; so that every system has 
a central point to which all that forms a part of it tends. 
It is to the centre of the earth that all the things 
within the range of our atmosphere gravitate. And in 
like manner, all the planetary systgns have their 
central suns, around which they perform their revolu- 
tions. And if so, is it not a warrantable conclusion, 
that God, whose controlling energy fills the universe, 
has chosen the centre of his vast dominions as his own 
appropriate residence, where he will perpetually- reside 
with all his saints ? The opinion certainly commends 
itself to our judgment, and also falls in with the gor- 
geous imagery of Scripture, which throws an ineffable 
splendor around the abode of the righteous. But if we 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 363 

are left to conjecture m regard to the particular location 
of that '' house of many mansions," prepared for the 
redeemed, we are not left in doubt as to the nature and 
employments of the place. 

And here I would remark, that we have abundant 
reason to believe, from the many declarations of Scrip- 
ture as to the appearance and structure of the place, 
that it is invested with a lofty physical grandeur. Ad- 
mitting that it is a place, and keeping in view the 
object for which it was provided, and the resources and 
skill of the Architect of the structure, we would natur- 
ally conceive it to be possessed of exalted excellence. 
The monarch who wields the sceptre of earthly empire, 
does not make his largest expenditures upon the im- 
provement of his provinces and cities farthest from the 
seat of royalty ; on the contrary, the style and structure 
of his palace, and the adornments of the imperial city, 
will share more largely in his munificence than any 
other portions of his dominions. The place where the 
powers of government reside, and the interests of state 
are shaped, is generally made attractive, and in most 
instances honored with higher decorations than any 



364 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA YEN. 

other. And is it not our privilege to believe tliat the 
home which the Ruler of the universe has fitted up for 
his children, will be clothed with a more excellent glory 
than any other part of his dominions ? Such an infer- 
ence is not more natural than we believe it to be just ; 
for the imagery which inspiration employs to represent 
heaven, is always of a glowing character. Our Savior 
himself speaks of it under the idea of a vast structure 
containing many apartments. " In my Father's house 
are many mansions ; if it were not so, I would have 
told you. I go to prepare a place for you." And if he 
who fashioned the heavens and the earth has fitted up 
that abode, will it not correspond with the character of 
his other works ? And are not all his creations beauti- 
ful ? There is a beanty in the winged cloud and in the 
circling wave ! There is a beauty in the setting sun, 
and in the dawn of day I There is beauty in the 
warbhng streamlet and its spotted tribes ! There is 
beauty in the forest, in the field, in the dew-drop, and 
in the ocean ! Look out upon the earth, and see ! Is 
it not beautiful, though it rests under the curse ? With 
what a ravishing glory does it roll forth to our view, 



MOTHERS ROME IN HEA YEN. 365 

clothed in that rich and varied robe which nature puts 
on in spring. Behold the mountains and continents, 
rivers and seas, all are arrayed with a grandeur that 
delights and charms the observer. But if the glorious 
Maker of all things has given so many visible displays 
of his power and goodness, and clothed with glory the 
sun, the moon, and the stars, and covered the whole 
creation with so many visible beauties, may we not rest 
confidently assured that the home of his chosen ones is 
invested with a transcendent glory ? His own presence 
will make it glorious beyond conception. For while 
his glory gleams from every star, and shines in every 
sun, and is sung in every anthem of nature, all the 
brightness, goodness, and excellence scattered through 
the universe are only rays or emanations which have 
gone out from him, as the infinite centre of all that is 
lovely and glorious. 

The physical glory of the place may also be 
inferred from the names by which it is known. Heaven 
is called the Paradise of God. The Eden where Adam 
and Eve dwelt when garnished with a rare excellence. 
A garden watered by four rivers, adorned with flowers 



3GG MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

and fountains, and peopled^ with every object that could 
excite pleasurable emotions; and yet was it only an 
emblem of our future home. The apostle John de- 
scribes the New Jerusalem as a city built of the most 
costly materials. " Its foundations were garnished 
with all manner of precious stones, and with walls of 
jasper." " A city of pure gold, and with gates of solid 
pearls." " And the glory of the nations was brought 
into it." " And a river of water clear as crystal flow- 
ing from the throne of God." " And in the midst 
of the street thereof, and on either side of the river, was 
there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of 
fruits, and yielded her fruit every month ; and the leaves 
thereof were for the healing of the nations." " And 
there shall be no night there." And thus, also, in all 
the other inspired books where heaven is spoken of, do 
we find it represented under the most brilliant emblems. 
The material creation is laid under contribution for 
images descriptive of the physical grandeur of that 
blessed abode. And who can doubt that the most sub- 
lime and gorgeous figures will fall short of the reality ? 
Nay, its blessedness and glory will far transcend even 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 367 

the high-wrought imagery of Inspiration. For how- 
ever well-conceived and graphic any representation of 
it may he, the figure is but a shadow, and can never 
rise to a full conception of the object which it is design- 
ed to image. Could the pencil of Raphael have 
transferred the living grandeur of i^Tiagara upon the 
canvas ? Can any artist paint an evening sunset with 
its appropriate gorgeousness and the mellowing beauty 
of its vanishing glories ? And if not, why should it 
appear marvellous that the glowing descriptions of 
heaven cannot adequately or fully acquaint us with its 
actual perfections. The skill and resources of Jehovah 
have been laid out upon it. Man has constructed ele- 
gant palaces, and wrought many attractive things; but 
God did not commit the preparation of that mansion to 
man nor angels, but his own hand has feshioned it ; and, 
therefore, it is doubtless true even of the physical ex- 
cellencies of the home of the ]3ure that " eye hath not 
seen, ear hath not heard ; neither hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive what God hath laid up 
for those who love him." 

But the future home of Christians is also possessed 



368 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

of a moral glory. It is an abode of spotless purity. 
This holiness of heaven is represented under the image 
of light. Light is the ouly material substance that is 
altogether pure. Gold is not perfectly free from impur- 
ities ; and the gems which sparkle in the imperial crown 
are not as pure as the sunbeams which they reflect. 
Light may pass through an impure medium, and fall 
upon the stagnant and foul pool without being tarnish- 
ed. And since it is not only perfectly pure, but warms 
and illumes the world, it is used as an image of 
piety and holiness. 

And as the purity and the blessings of light made 
it a fit emblem in the estimation of inspired writers to 
represent the nature and effects of religion, so also for 
the same reason is it appropriately used to describe the 
purity and felicity of heaven. Hence it is written, 
" And there shall be no night there." iTo physical 
night, no darkness, shall ever mantle the celestial 
fields ; no intellectual night, no errors of judgment, no 
fallacious conclusions of the reasoning faculties. But 
above all, there will be no moral night. All the angels 
are holy. And as to the saints, they are like Christ ; 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 369 

bearing his image, and reflecting his glorious hohness, 
as the planets reflect the light of the sun. "He is able 
to present you faultless before the presence of his glory 
with exceeding joy." " Then," said the Savior, ^' shall 
the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of 
the Father." " They that be wise shall shine as the 
brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever 
and ever." " They shall walk with me in white, for 
they are worthy." " The sufierings of this present 
time," says the apostle, " are not worthy to be compar- 
ed to the glory which shall be revealed in us." These 
and many other passages represent to us the holiness of 
the saints. They are holy as God is holy. And what 
an inconceivable moral splendor must, therefore, clothe 
that heavenly world ! What a dignity and glory would 
cover the earth, were all its inhabitants morally pure ! 
But alas ! it is not so here ; for this world is a moral 
waste, with here and there a flower waked into bloom 
by the quickening power of Divine grace. This earth 
is a land of storms and tempests, of tears and woes. 
Here we groan, being burdened with many imperfec- 
tions, and oppressed with many trials. One calamity 



370 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 

after another sweeps with desolating power over those 
cherished spots where we rejoiced in the light of earthly 
prosperity; and we move ahout in that circle once 
radiant with joys, and vocal with voices forever hushed 
on earth, and fill it with our lamentations, and water it 
with our tears. Here we are continually reminded of 
the evil of sin, and the miseries with which it emhitters 
life. But yonder we shall have passed beyond the 
reach of its influence ; for in that home of bliss there 
is no curse, no sin, no sorrow, no death. 

It is also a happy and glorious home. There there 
is perfect harmony, and, therefore, perfect peace. 'No 
disturbing element can enter there to conflict with our 
happiness. Here we are never secure against those 
numerous external evils and internal corruptions which 
mar our tranquillity and disturb the peace of our souls. 
But as all those influences which agitate and afflict our 
spirits are caused by sin, and as in heaven we shall be 
perfectly holy, we shall also be perfectly happy. And 
besides the absence of all disturbing causes and jarring 
elements, the saints are also in possession of all that 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 371 

can possibly contribute to the enjoyment of a rational 
being. 

But it is also a glorious home in view of the society 
of the place, and the relations they sustain to each 
other. The apostles speak of heaven as a house, a 
city, a commonwealth, or association of believers. 
" For we know that if our earthly house of this taber- 
nacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a 
house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 

Among the elements which will enter into our 
happiness in that blessed home, the employments in 
which we shall engage will constitute a large item. To 
me it has always seemed an erroneous supposition that 
the activities of the saints are wholly taken up in acts 
of praise and contemplations of the perfections of 
Deity. That these exercises will enter largely into their 
occupations is morally certain ; but that they are the 
only and exclusive employments does not appear prob- 
able. There are many other methods besides this con- 
templation through which the excellency of the divine 
character may be discovered and admired. The history 
of creation will be an absorbing theme of interest and 



373 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

study. For with it are associated tlie grandeur, the 
might, the wisdom, and goodness of God. The extent 
and duration of his kingdom and being, the profundity 
of his counsels, and the subhmity of his power and 
glory, are all brought under review in the volume of 
creation. Communications from those sons of light 
who were spectators of that event may be imparted to 
the saints. And add to this the fact that God will 
throw open to the inspection of his children the entire 
universe, and permit them to visit all the worlds that 
move in cloudless majesty through his vast dominions, 
and what sublime lessons will the mind learn as it 
sweeps over that field of immensity, studded with the 
magnificent creations of Jehovah ! If the cultivated 
mind already derives its most exalted pleasures from 
devout astronomical studies, will it not experience in- 
finitely greater delight, then, in viewing the motions 
and listening to the melodies of the spheres ? And as 
the grandeur of God's creations was the frequent theme 
of prophets and inspired writers in general, and as 
nothing which they have written impresses the mind 
with a livelier sense of the might and majesty of the 



MO THEB)S HOME IN HE A VEN, 373 

great Architect than their allusions to, and descriptions 
of, the vast materialism which he has fashioned, so is 
it reasonahle to infer that our impressions ofl the great- 
ness of Jehovah will he proportionahly increased as our 
conceptions of the extent and magnificence of his em- 
pire will he enlarged. We cherish it, then, as a precious 
conviction that those heavens into whose holy depths 
our eyes have so often and admiringly peered will he- 
come accessible to our spirits, and that it will be our 
privilege to survey and explore all the worlds with 
which they are peopled, as we now do the earth upon 
which we dwell. 

Then our heavenly home will abide forever — it is 
eternal. This is its crowning excellence. That which 
greatly depreciates the value of the most desirable 
earthly possessions, and honors, and distinctions, is 
their liability to pass away ; yea, the inevitable destruc- 
tion which awaits them. Decay and death are im- 
printed upon all things. Among the properties which 
enter into the constitution of earthly objects, we neither 
find permanence nor indestructibility. God has im- 
pressed mutability upon all the works of man. No 



374 MOTHER'S nOME m HEAVEm 

magnificent city tliat he has built, no stately pile nor 
towering pyramid which his genius has planned and 
his industry has executed, but hath either crumbled into 
a heap of ruine, or has upon it the" marks of decay. 
No, not the most costly and durable monument of mar- 
ble or of brass will remain exempt from this inevitable 
doom. Man himself is an illustration of this frailty of 
human things; "for his days are as the grass, as a 
flower of the field he flourisheth ; for the wind passeth 
over it, and it is gone, and the place that knew it shall 
know it no more forever." " Our fathers, where are 
they?" " And the prophets, do they live forever?" 
Alas ! what millions have gone down into the tomb, 
and what precious treasures does this earth hold over to 
the resurrection morn ! Look we at our firesides and 
households ; our families are growing less. 

" Friend after friend departs, 
Who has not lost a friend !" 

The most lovely and happily-conditioned family 
has germinating within it, the seeds of death and disso- 
lution. But the Christian dies but once, and dying, 
lives forever. We can stand by our deserted family 



MOTHERS HOME IN HE AVEir, 375 

altars, and desolate hearths, and look up to our future 
glorious home, already occupied hy our sainted friends, 

and rejoice, that decay and blight never fall upon the 

I 

Christian's home in heaven. 

1^0, it is permanent. Its foundations are laid in 
the immutability of Jehovah — its walls are immortal- 
ity, its gates praise, and its day eternity. There it 
stands in its peerless glory, the metropolis of the uni- 
verse, luminous with the light of God. And amid all 
the changes which may sweep with desolating power 
over thrones and kingdoms, it will stand radiant with 
salvation, and remain unshaken and unimpaired, 

amid — . 

*^ The wreck of matter 
And the crash of worlds.'' 

And may not those who have furnished inmates 
for that glorious home — who have watched by the pil- 
low of the dying whom they loved, until their spirits 
took wing for that place of rest, derive comfort from 
the assurance that they are supremely blest ! O you 
would not, if you could, my bereaved brother, or sister, 
silence one of the harps of heaven by bringing back 



876 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 

ttie spirit whose hand sweeps it to the praise of the 
Redeemer ! Nay, the more you contemplate the glory 
of that home, and the blessedness of its occupants, the 
more you will become reconciled to the most painful 
bereavements ; while the hope of entering there, will ex- 
cite you to unremitted dihgence to obtain that purity 
of heart, without which we cannot see God. Aged 
disciple, thou art near thy home ; and oh, such a home ! 
Labor patiently, thou man of toil, and wait calmly, for 
thy Redeemer draweth nigh ! Weary, afflicted, desolate 
one, drink the cup which a Father's hand gives, for thy 
night of sorrow is fast passing away ; for behold, the 
dawn of an eternal day of glory is now breaking. 




MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN, 3t? 



THE MOimTAIJ^S OF LIFE. 

James O. Clark. 

THERE'S a land far away, mid the stars, we aretoM, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time ; 
Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, 

And life is a treasure suhlime ; 
'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, 
Where ages of splendor eternally roll ; — 
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal 
On the evergreen mountains of life. 

Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land. 

But our visions have told of its bliss, 
And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned 

When we faint in the deserts of this. 
And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose. 
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes. 
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



378 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 

! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night 
But we think where the ransomed have trod 5 

And the day never smiles from its palace of light 
But we feel the bright smile of our God. 

We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom. 

To a kingdom where pleasures unchangingly bloom, 

And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



HEREAFTER. 

5nniS sweet to think hereafter, 

JL When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
Love on ^deathless wings shall waft her 

To those she long hath mourned for here ! 
Hearts from which 'twas death to sever. 

Eyes this v/orld can ne'er restore, 
There as warm, as bright as ever, 

Shall meet us and be lost no more. 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 379 



THE HOME OYER THERE. 

D. W. D. Huntington. 

OH, think of the home over there, 
By the side of the river of light, 
Where the saints all immortal and fair, 
Are robed in their garments of white ! 

Oh, think of the friends over there, 
Who before us the journey have trod, 

Of the songs that they breathe on the air, 
In their home in the palace of God ! 

I'll soon be at home over there, 

For the end of my journey I see ; 
Many dear to my heart, over there, 

Ave watching and waiting for me. 



380 MOTBEWS ROME M EEA YEN. 

"HOME IS WHEEE MOTHER IS." 

WHEE the toils and cares of the day are over, and 
the children are at home from school, then 
comes the most delightful hour to the family circle. 
The outside world is dismissed, and father, and mother, 
and children are together in sweet communion and un- 
shaken trust. There is no vacant chair. There is not 
a face missing. Death has never visited this home. 
The hour of retiring comes, and blessed with father's 
instructions and mother's prayers, the little group retire 
for the night. May it not be that angels hover over 
such a home during the silent watches. 

But sickness comes. The mother is prostrated ; a 
physician is called, but he gives no hope. Friends 
gather about the bed and look sadly on while the 
mother passes through the valley and shadow of death. 
The dreadful hour is over at last, and she is dead. 
Kight comes on again, and a lonely watch is kept. 
How changed this home ! What now is the " evening 
hour," and what must it be in all time to come ? 

Little children know no one so dear as mother ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 381 

they long for none so much, and even up to adult age — 

" Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you !" 

The beautiful carrier-pigeons dart through the 

air like arrows at the rate of forty miles an hour, 

" going home." The little bird is a dear lover of home, 

and perils everything to get there. And so with all 

human kind — 

" There is no place like home ; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 

And when from the family circle the mother is called 

away, the hearts of the children naturally turn toward 

that land where — 

" Sickness, sorrow, pain, and death 
Are felt and feared no more." 
And however much they may shrink at " death's 

alarms," there is a strong feeling that henceforth " their 

home" is in heaven. 

" I am going home to die no more," 

was her parting blessing to her loved ones. 

" A home iii heaven, 
What a joyful thought !" 
When mother is dead, and father is dead, and 
the family are scattered, there can be but one hope 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN 

and expectation of a family reunion. The manliness, 

and dignity, and industry of the father are things never 

to be forgotten, and his counsels have saved us many 

a blunder, but — 

" No love like mother-love, 
Ever was known.'^ 
And at that future family reunion we hope for, mother 

will be nearest and dearest of all. 

Many a motherless and homeless child strays from 

the paths of right. I^o one knows so well as a 

mother how to guide the little feet. How lone and sad 

the motherless child ; with, perhaps, no home, and no 

abiding friendships, or love, " in all the land," the heart 

at last turns towards — 

'' The home of the soul, 
Where mother is waiting and watching." 

Like the uncaged carrier-bird, the soul longs for 
home. 

Mrs. Sigourney vividly portrays a scene where a 

little girl is passing through the dark valley and shadow 

of death — 

" She told her faith in Jesus — 
Her simple prayer was said ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HE A YEN. 883 

And now that darkened vail she trod 
Which leadeth to the dead. 

" Yet mid the gasp and struggle, 

With shuddering lips she cried 
" mother, dearest mother, 
Bury me by your side !' 

*'One only wish she uttered, 
While life was ebbing fast, — 
^ Sleep by my side, dear mother, 
And rise with me at last.' " 

Death itself seemed unable to separate them. Her 

thoughts, and feelings, and hopes were all of her 

mother ; and the gloom of the grave and fear of the 

future were overshadowed in the comforting thought 

that mother would go along through it all, and would, 

" Rise with me at last." 

Home is where mother is, let that be among — 

" The sepulchres of our departed," 

or in — 

" The far-away home of the soul." 

As the carrier-dove soars aloft, and surveys— 

*' The landscape o'er," 



384 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 

and then speeds away home, so many a loved, and 

weary, and afflicted one gladly leaves — 

" This land of sin and sorrow," 

for mother's home beyond the stars. What delight in 

that thought, and that rapturous hope, as it brightens 

into fruition, and the heart cries out — 

"Oh, joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the beautiful river, 
The angel of death shall carry me." 



"THERE IS A WOELD ABOYE." 

THERE is a world above. 
Where parting is unknown ; 
A long eternity of love, 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here, 
Translated to that glorious sphere. 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 385 



TO MY MOTHER 

— Noah W. Parker. 
^HEEE lives and dwells in mansions far 
-^ Beyond the ken of erring mortals, 
A soul whose virtues, like a star 

Resplendent, shine beyond their portals. 
A soul, so loving, kind and fair — 

To me more dear than every other — 
"Who blessed me with her latest prayer, 

And answered to the name of Mother. 

The joys and griefs of childhood born, 

She shared with all a mother's fervor, 
My joys were jewels in her crown. 

My griefs, her clouds of sadness ever. 
For all my faults she made excuse. 

My merits praised o'er every other. 
She screened me from the world's abuse, 

And taught me to adore — my Mother. 



386 MOTREKS ROME IN REAYEN. 

"When youth with its ambitious fires, 

Had nerved my soul to grand endeavor, 
She cherished all my high desires, 

And checked each gross outcropping ever. 
At times, when evil took command, 

And worldly lusts the good would smother, 
1^0 other, with the helping hand, 

So quickly came to save, as Mother. 

How oft my wayward steps have torn 

That loving heart, and been forgiven ; 
How oft my chidings she has borne. 

Is known but in the courts of heaven. 
In heedless folly oft I've trod 

O'er her fond heart, to please another, 
While she would humbly ask her God 

To pardon me, as would my Mother. 

When manhood's years and business cares 

At last compelled a separation. 
She followed, with her fondest prayers, 

My every step and avocation. 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN, 387 

And then, as in my childhood's years, 
A dearer friend than worldly brother, 

She shared my joys and anxious cares, 
As none can do, except a Mother. 

If I could live my life again. 

And had both wealth and worldly power. 
And it would cause her heart one pain 

Or drive her from me for an hour, 
I'd give up all of worldly good, 

Its pomp, its crowns, its giddy bother. 
To prove to thee my gratitude — 

My dearest, sun-crowned, angel Mother. 

The sons and daughters of our race 

Can never know, till death has taken 
The mother from their fond embrace. 

How great their loss, or how forsaken. 
She molds the mind for cares of state. 

She teaches man to love his brother, 
And through the greatest of the great 

She still remains a loving Mother. 



388 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

If aught of truth my life has shown, 

Or aught of manhood's high endeavor, 
I owe it to that angel one 

Who gave me life and loved me ever. 
She left her sons and daughters aU 

A life whose years surpassed each other, 
In all the noble traits that fall 

Upon the sacred name of Mother. 

Pile to the clouds the stones of fame, 

For heroes who wiU hve in story, 
And grave on each the honored names 

Of those who fill the cup of glory ; 
But higher still, and brighter far, 

A name will shine o'er every other — 
That dearest, sweetest monitor — 

That race-upbuilding name of Mother. 







N the cultivation of the minds and hearts of women 
depend the welfare and the happiness of the race. 

— Mrs. Sigourney, 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 889 



MEMOEIES. 

— Horace P. Biddle. 

I HAD a mother ; but ere six summer's suns 
Had kissed my bo3dsh locks she was no more. 
Thus gone my guide when life had just begun, 
And I too young my guardian to deplore ; 
Yet memory wanders back to days of yore, 

And finds one tender place no time can hide, 
'Tis deeply printed in my bosom's core ; 
'Twas when she faintly called me to her side, 
Kissed my wet cheek, begged blessings gn her boy, and 
died! ' 



THE tender smile. 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul and the angel's face. 
That are beaming on me all the while- 
She is my mother 



890 MOTHER'S HOME M HEAVEK 



CHANGED HARMOJSTIES. 

—Rev, James W. Mills. 

FAIR faces beaming round the household hearth, 
Young, joyous tones in melody of mirth, 
The sire doubly living in his boy. 
And she, the crown of all that wealth of joy, — 
These make the home like some sweet lyre, given 
To sound on earth the harmonies of heaven. 

A sudden discord breaks the swelling strain. 

One cord has snapped ; the harmony again 

Subdued and slower moves, but never more 

Can pour the same glad music as of yore ; 

Less and less full the strains successful wake. 

Chord after chord must break, and break, and break 

Until the earthly lyre, dumb and riven. 

Finds all its chords restrung to loftier notes in heaven. 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN, 391 



HOME K^D HEAYEK 

— Joseph Very. 
TT7ITH the same letter, heaven and home begin, 
' ^ And the words dwell together in the mind ; 
For they who would a home in heaven win 

Must first a heaven in home begin to find. 
Be happy here, yet with a humble soul 

That looks for perfect happiness in heaven ; 
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole 

Which to the faithful shall at last be given. 
As once the patriarch in a vision blessed, 

Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro, 
And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest 
Became to him the gate of heaven below ; 

So may to thee, when life itself is done. 

Thy home on earth and heaven above be one. 



392 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN, 

CROSSma OYER. 

IT may be that the loved of our homes who have 
gone on before are watching and waiting for us, 
and that when the hour of death shall come, they will 
not be far away. There are many events that have 
transpired at death's door illustrating and proving this 
beautiful thought. It is no inconsiderable thing for a 
suffering child to believe that a sainted mother will be 
near when death comes. Mother's name is the dearest 
of all earthly names, and in the saddest hours of life 
the child turns to her. I was at the bedside of a 
suffering woman, years ago, and although she was her- 
self a wife and mother, when the gloom of death gathered 
around her, she called aloud for her own sainted mother. 
"Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you !" 
And so when death comes, mother is dearer, and 
perhaps nearer, than any other one we have ever known. 
And when we approach Jordan's brink, she will be 
there to go with us over. This thought is illustrated 
by the following truthful and touching incident : — 

" A little girl, a lovely and precious child, lost hei 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 393 

mother at an age too early to ^x the loved features in 
her remembrance. She was as frail as beautiful ; and 
as the bud of her heart unfolded, it seemed as if, won 
by her mother's prayers, to turn instinctively heaven- 
ward. She was the idol of the family ; but she faded 
away early. She would He upon the lap of a friend 
who bestowed a mother's kind care upon her, and 
winding one wasted arm about her neck, would say, 
'Now tell me about my mamma.' And when the 
oft-repeated tale was told, she would say softly, < Take 
me into the parlor, I want to see my mamma.' The 
request was never refused, and the affectionate child 
would lie for hours contentedly gazing on her mother's 
portrait. But — 

" Pale and wan she grew, and weakly, 
Bearing all her pains so meekly, 
That to them she still grew dearer, 
As the trial-hour grew nearer." 
" That hour came at last, and the weeping friends 
assembled to see the little child die. The dew of death 
was already on the flower as its life's sun was going 
down. The little chest heaved spasmodically. *I>) 
you know me, darling?' sobbed the voice that was 



894 MO THERMS HOME AY UFA VBN. 

dearest; but it awoke no answer. All at once a bright- 
ness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's 
colorless features. The eyelids flashed open, the lips 
parted, the wan, cuddling hands flew up in the little 
one's last impulsive efibrt, as she looked piercingly 
into the far-above. * Mother!' she cried with surprise 
and transport, and passed with that breath to her 
mother's bosom." 

" When my final farewell to the world I have said, 

And gladly lie down to my rest ; 
When softly the watchers shall say, ' He is dead,* 

And fold my pale hands o'er my breast ; 
And when with my glorified vision at last 

The walls of that city I see, 
Will any one then, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me ? 
There are old and forsaken who linger a while 

In the homes that their dearest have left, 
And a few gentle words or an action of love 

May cheer their sad spirits bereft ; 
But the reaper is near to the long-standing corUj 

The weary will soon be set free ; 
Will any of them, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me ?" 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 395 



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE. 

THERE'S many a lovely picture 
On memory's silent wall, 
There's many a cherished image 

That I tenderly recall. 
The sweet home of my childhood, 

With its singing hrooks and birds ; 
The friends who grew beside me, 

With their loving looks and woj-ds ; 
The flowers that decked the wild wood. 

The roses fresh and sweet. 
The bluebells and the daisies, 

That blossomed at my feet ; 
All, all are very precious. 

And often come to me, 
Like breezes from a better land. 

Beyond life's troubled sea. 
But the sweetest, dearest picture 

That memory can create, 



396 MOTHERS S HOME m HEAVEN. 

Is the image of my mother, 
My mother at the gate. 

It 13 there I see her standing, 

With her face so pure and fair. 
With the sunhght and the shadows 

On her snowy cap and hair ; 
I can feel the soft warm pressure 

Of the hand that clasped my own ; 
I can see the look of fondness 

That in her hlue eyes shone ; 
I can hear her parting blessing 

Through the lapse of weary years ; 
I can see through all my sorrows 

Her own sweet, silent tears. 
Ah ! amid the darkest trials 

That have mingled with my fate, 
I have turned to that dear image. 

My mother at the gate. 

But she has crossed the river. 
She is with the angels now ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN, 397 

She has laid aside earth's crosses, 

And the crown is on her brow ; 
She is clothed in clean white linen, 

And she walks the streets of gold. 
O, loved one, safe forever, 

Within the Savior's fold, 
!N'o sorrowing thoughts can reach thee, 

No grief is thine to-day ; 
God gives thee joy for mourning. 

Thy tears are wiped away. 
Thou art waiting in that city 

Where the saints and angels wait. 
And I'll know thee, dearest mother. 

When I reach the Pearly Gate. 

— Anonymom. 




398 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEK 




MY MOTHER. 

Belle Bush. 

Y motlier's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 
Holy Evangels ; 
There she feels neither sorrow nor pain, and treads not 

the path of the weary. 
Years ago, in the bud of my being, I knew her a radi- 
ant mortal. 
But the house of her soul decayed, and she fled from 

the crumbling mansion. 
And over the sea of eternity, bridged by the hands of 

the angels. 
Uniting the links of belief, with the golden chain of 

repentance, 
She passed with the torch of prayer, to the opposite 

shore in safety. 
When crowned with the garlands of love, she mounted 

the steps of the city, 
Angels of mercy and truth, keeping watch at the 

heavenly portals, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN, 399 

Beheld her approach from afar, and flung open the 

pearly partitions ; 
With songs and loud hallelujahs, they welcomed the 

earth-ransomed stranger. 
And guided her steps, till she stood on the brink of 

the life-giving fountain, 
"Where tasting its lethean waters, all the joys of the 

world were forgotten, 
Save the beautiful bloom of the soul — the love in the 

heart of the mother. 
This, the light of her life upon earth, now budded and 

blossomed in heaven ; 
Stately and fair it towered, and the hues of its leaves 

were immortal ; 
Strong tendrils grew out from each bough, and twined 

round the cords of her spirit. 
While the zephyrs of Paradise played, and toyed with 

the delicate branches. 
Till each leaf like a harp-string swayed, and murmured 

in strains -^olian, 
And often in musical numbers reminded the wondering 

mother 



400 MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEN, 

Of the flowers she had left in the desert — ^her weary 
and sorrowing children. 

In their half-open leaflets she. reads the pledge of her 
glorious mission, 

And rejoices that her love should gather those earth 
buds to her bosom. 

The angels beheld her in gladness rise up on those ra- 
diant pinions 

Which float on the air like a sunbeam, and rival the 
dove in their fleetness. 



Oh, my mother's a beautifiil spirit, and her home is the 

Holy Evangels ; 
But she comes on her soft floating pinions to look for 

her earth-born children. 
She comes, and the hearts that were weary no longer 

remember their sorrow 
In their joy that the lost is returned, our beloved and 

radiant mother; 
She comes, and our spirits rejoice, for we know she's our 

guardian angel, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 401 

O'er our journey in life keeping watch, and giving ns 

gentle caresses. 
She comes, she comes with the light that opens the gate 

of the morning ; 
Her robes are of delicate pink, sweet emblem of holy 

affection — 
And her voice is our music by night, of perils and 

storms giving warning — 
And twined o'er her radiant brow are the amaranth- 
blossoms of heaven. 
She smiles, and the light of her smiles bringeth joy in 

our seasons of darkness ; 
She whispers, and soft are the zephyrs that echo her 

musical numbers, 
As they waft o'er the chords of our being her thrilling 

and fervent emotions. ^ 

We listen to her in our sorrow, and yield to each gentle 

impression, 
Till pleasant to us is the path leading down to the 

rushing river ; 
O'er the swift rolling current of death we shall pass to 
the homes of the spirits, 



402 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA YEN. 

And waiting beside the still waters, our mother will he 
there to greet us ; 

W"ith songs she will welcome our coming, and fold us 
to rest on her bosom, 

^nd teach us, like lisping children, to murmur the lan- 
guage of heaven ! 

Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 
Holy Evangels, 

Eut she comes on the pinions of love to watch her sor- 
rowing children ; 

She comes, and the shadows depart, as we thrill to her 
gentle caresses. 

Our Father in Heaven, wo bless thee, that our mother's 
our Guardian Angel. 




MOTStER'S HOME IN HE A YEN. 4o3 

THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 

Susan Pindar. 

ART thou near me, spirit mother, 
When in the twihght hour, 
A holy hush pervades my heart 

With a mysterious power ; 
While eyes of dreamy tenderness 

Seem gazing into mine, 
And stir the fountains of my soul,— 
Sweet mother, are they thine ? 

Is thine the blessed influence 

That o'er my being flings 
A sense of rest, as though 'twas wrapped 

Within an angel's wings ? 
A deep abiding trustfulness. 

That seems an earnest given 
Of future happiness and peace 

To those who dwell in heaven. 

And often when my footsteps stray 

In error's shining track, 
There comes a soft restraining voice, 



404 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEK 

That seems to call me back ; 
I hear it not with outward ears, 

But with a power divine 
Its whisper thrills my inmost soul , 

Sweet mother, is it thine ? 

It well may be, for know we not 

That beings all unseen 
Are ever hovering o'er our paths, 

The earth and sky between ? 
They're with us in our daily walks, 

And tireless vigils keep 
To weave those happy fantasies 

That bless our hours of sleep ! 

Oh, could we feel that spirit eyes 

Forever on us gaze. 
And watch each idle thought that threads 

The heart's bewildering maze ; 
Would we not guard each careless word, 

All sinful feelings quell. 
Lest we should grieve the cherished ones 

We loved on earth so well ? 



MOTBEE'S ROME IN HE A VEN. 405 



HOME. 

A CHILD, speaking to a friend of his home, was 
asked: "Where is your home?" Looking up 
with loving eyes at his mother, he replied, " Where 
mother is." Home ! " What a hallowed name ! How 
full of enchantment and how dear to the heart ! Home 
is the magic circle within which the weary spirit finds 
refuge ; it is the sacred asylum to which the care-worn 
heart retreats to find rest from the toils and cares of 
life. Home ! That name touches every fiber of our 
soul. Nothing hut death can break its spell." And, 
as dear as home can be, is the mother that presided 
over it, and that we loved. Long years may have 
flown since we saw that home, and since the dearest of 
all earthly friends has slept the long and silent sleep of 
death ; but that home and that mother will never cease 
to awaken the sweetest recollections of our lives. 
'' Home, Sweet Home 1" 
Some years ago twenty thousand people gathered 
in the old Castle Garden, New York, to hear Jenny 



406 MOTHER'S HOME IM HEA VEN. 

Lind sing, as no other songstress ever had sung, the 
sublime compositions of Beethoven, Handel, etc. At 
length, the Swedish ^Nightingale thought of her home, 
paused and seemed to fold her wings for a higher 
flight. She began, with deep emotion, to pour forth, 
" Home, Sweet Home." The audience could not stand 
it. An uproar of applause stopped the music. Tears 
gushed from the eyes of that vast multitude like rain. 
After a moment, the song came again, seemingly as 
from heaven — almost angeHc, " Home, Sweet Home !" 
That was the word that bound, as with a spell, twenty 
thousand souls, and Howard Payne triumphed over the 
great masters of song. 

Home of our childhood ! We are folded again in 
mother's arms. She is again leaning over us, and 
bathing our forehead and cooling our fevered brow. 
But, alas ! that mother is no longer in that home. She 
has gone to live with the angels. But there is another 
home, a home beyond the stars ; and mother has gone to 
live, " Where they know not the sorrows of time." 
"Up to that world of light, 
Take us, dear Savior ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 407 

May we all there unite, 

Happy, forever. 
Where kindred spirits dwell, 
There may our music swell, 
And time our joys dispel — 
Never — no, never." 
Heaven is the home that awaits us hey end the 
grave. At the hest estate, we are only pilgrims here. 
Heaven is our eternal home. Death will never knock 
at the door of that mansion. " Parents rejoice very 
much when, on Christmas day, or on Thanksgiving 
day, they have their children at home ; hut there is al- 
most always a son or a daughter absent from the 
country, or from the world." But, oh ! how glad we 
will he when w^e are all at home, all safe at home. 
Once there, let earthly sorrows howl like storms, and 
swell like seas. Home ! Let thrones decay and em- 
pires wither. Home! Let the world die in earth- 
quake struggles, and he buried amid the procession of 
planets and dirge of spheres. Home ! Let everiastiug 
ages roll in irresistible sweep. Home ! Ko sorrow, no 
crying, no death, but home, sweet home. Beautiful 
home ! Everlasting home ! Home w^ith each other ! 



408 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 



Home with the angels ! Home with God ! Home 
with mother ! Home ! Home ! By the grace of the 
dear Master, may we all get home. 

Adieu, reader. Here we lay down our pen, hut 
here we do not end our meditations. Our thoughts, 
and foeUngs, and hopes crowd onward still. 





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